


Come Together

by Jmetropolis



Series: You're the One [3]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Beach Holidays, Beach House, Children, Doctor Midorima, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Family, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fatherhood, Future Fic, Islands, M/M, Married Life, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Protective Siblings, Same-Sex Marriage, Sea Monsters, Sexual Content, Siblings, So Married, Summer Vacation, Sunburn, Third Wheels, Vacation, hangovers, unintended water sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmetropolis/pseuds/Jmetropolis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aw come on Shin-chan. It'll be fun." Takao said, as if his assessment of "fun" had ever persuaded Midorima to do anything. In fact, it had quite the opposite effect. It filled the taller man with dread. Sometimes Midorima Shintarō thought he should have his head examined. Because not only did he willingly subject himself to this kind of torture, he'd married it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Aw come on Shin-chan. It'll be fun." Takao said, as if his assessment of "fun" had ever persuaded Midorima to do anything. In fact, it had quite the opposite effect. It filled the taller man with dread.

"No. No. No," he snapped, pausing for effect. "Absolutely not." He said in that deep, authoritative voice of his that in a different context would've made Takao positively shiver in pleased anticipation.

And as if to show this conversation was over, the former ace stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. "I refuse. I absolutely forbid it." He added.

The overly dramatic gesture would've been more effective if he wasn't wearing a nightcap and matching pajamas. Both were articles of clothing that Takao had decidedly, purposefully, and eagerly yanked off of him the night before and Midorima had clearly put back on this morning when there had been an unexpected visitor at the front door of their shared penthouse apartment.

Takao looked at him like he was adorable for thinking he had a final say in the matter. It was the same overly fond look Kazunari gave their daughter when she would proclaim loudly (and usually in public, at restaurants) that she was only eating ice cream for dinner or insist she wasn't leaving the playground, closing hours be damned.

Midorima hated when Takao looked at him like that. It was an indulgent, humoring, excessively doting look, but most of all it was infuriating because deep down inside he knew Takao was right. He didn't have a say, he didn't have a choice in the matter.

Midorima sighed miserably. He should've never answered the doorbell this morning. He was going to have it out with their doorman for not doing his job and letting just anyone waltz up here unannounced.


	2. Chapter 2

Midorima was now fully dressed in what for him constituted resort wear -- prescription aviators, a seersucker jacket, khaki shorts, a braided brown leather belt and Italian horsebit driving loafers. Because it was summer, he had allowed himself to don a button down shirt in a lighter fabric -- linen -- and in a cool, pastel shade -- mint.

His other half was sporting a backwards baseball cap, wayfarers, a hideous black tank top that looked about three decades too old, a pair of shorts the color of a construction cone and flip flops. He looked like someone who cleaned pools for a living. The crimes of fashion Midorima could dig up in Takao's side of their enormous walk-in closet would make a Harajuku native blush. He could picture the mugshot now. Takao Kazunari: fashion victim. 

If Midorima didn't know any better he'd say it was laundry day or that Takao got dressed in the dark, but he did know better. He'd actually witnessed the hawkeye try on three equally unsuitable and horrendous outfits, before settling on this one for reasons that were beyond Midorima's considerable brain power and self-professed understanding of all things Kazunari. 

Shintarō's dark green hair was still slightly soggy from a hasty shower he had taken under protest. The moisture collecting at his nape was dampening the back of his collar as he sat ramrod straight in the front passenger seat of his own car. He was feeling very much a hostage being led to some remote, abandoned location where he'd surely spend the coming days in interminable pain and constant agony. He felt betrayed by a loved one and kidnapped and taken against his will. Midorima wasn't prone to melodrama, theatrics, or histrionics, _not at all_.

His arms were still crossed rigidly in staunch disapproval -- this time over his seatbelt instead of his pajama-clad chest. He was putting the vanity mirror on the sun visor to good use, employing it to glare daggers at his sister-in-law.

Kazunari had offered to drive and to take Midorima's car -- as if that small gesture of goodwill would atone for ruining "everything" as Shintarō had so succinctly and eloquently put it -- knowing that although they now had matching cars, Midorima always complained about the squalid state of Takao's ignoring the fact that unlike Midorima, Takao had to schlep two small children and their sticky, messy fingers everywhere.

As if to illustrate Takao's point, as if on cue, a slumbering Keiko shifted in her car seat, dropping her pink sippy cup and its red, liquidy contents onto Shin-chan's formerly pristine floor mat. On the adjacent floor mat were the pulverized remnants of what only a laboratory grade microscope would've been able to identify unsalted crackers. A snack Kazunari had given to Kichiro as he had buckled the tot into his car seat (brushing back his soft dark, downy hair to gently place a kiss on his forehead) in anticipation of the long road trip ahead.

Sandwiched between the two, heavy duty car seats -- each carrying a heavily dozing child -- sat Kazumi on the center hump in the backseat of the luxury sedan. Her lone, haphazardly packed, hurriedly closed suitcase -- which still had bits of clothing sticking out of it -- was balancing precariously on her bony knees as she stared straight ahead, seemingly impervious to her brother-in-law's pointed glares. Her thoughts were a million miles away.

The normally vivacious, flirty, raven-haired headturner was almost unrecognizable in her current state. Her lips were a thin, occasionally quivering horizontal line. The remnants of her mascara lain in sad, vertical black streaks down her cheeks where now-dried tears had once been. Her expression was dour, her features frozen in pained concentration looking very much like someone who had examined her life for the very first time and was unhappy with what she saw.

The sight of her would've tugged on anyone else's heartstrings, anyone but Midorima Shintarō who was too furious with her to do anything but glower. As far as Midorima was concerned, the fact that the sun was already so high overhead was an indictment of Kazumi's many faults.

They had gotten a late start in part thanks to this unexpected, grief-stricken, unhappy addition to their entourage. But it wasn't entirely Kazumi's fault. Their tardiness was as much due and owing to Keiko-chan's newly discovered fascination with the elevator buttons. The preschooler had managed to push all the lower floor numbers she could reach with her pudgy, dimpled hands, before any of the adults (each distracted for a different reason) had noticed. By the time they caught on, after the carriage had stopped on multiple, consecutive floors, Kichiro had wanted to have a go too. So Kazunari, ever the doting father, had learned closer to the control panel so that the tot in his arms could light up the rest of the numbers. In fairness, it wasn't all Kazumi's fault, but Midorima was feeling uncharitable and placed the blame entirely at her sandal-clad, bony, recently pedicured feet.

Takao gripped the wheel and gazed into the horizon, at the miles and miles of seemingly endless highway in front of them. Shintarō refused to look directly at him, but every once in a while he fiddled with the navigation screen on the dashboard so he could catch a glimpse of the hawkeye.

He wasn't oblivious to the way the corner of Takao's mouth quirked upwards. It was obvious to him that his partner was trying to keep a straight face; he was trying not to smile. He could tell Takao wanted to laugh, he wanted to tease and make some quip about having three toddlers instead of two. Midroima was silently daring him to because he felt like an overheated tea kettle just waiting to boil over.

Shintarō's arms were falling asleep from being folded up in a static position for so long, but he refused to uncoil them, lest Kazunari misinterpret that as a sign of assent, as a sign of Midorima capitulating to the demands of his hostage takers. He did not agree to transporting this fifth wheel. He did not want to take in this party crasher. He had been put upon, inconvenienced, and was hell-bent on making his silent displeasure known to the still conscious inhabitants of the car cabin.

It was _supposed_ to be a family vacation, one he had earned by working five weekends in a row in order cobble together enough hours so that he could get seven sequential days away from the hospital. He had taken on extras shifts and worked all of Golden Week without a single complaint, because he knew come August he'd have some richly deserved time off.

It was _supposed_ to be him and his spouse and their children spending quality, _family_  time together on an exquisite and very exclusive little island that required the right connections and reservations made months in advance. It was supposed to be him and Takao getting some much needed, much wanted couple time after putting the children down for their naps.

It was supposed to be all these things until his sister-in-law showed up on their front door that morning, tears running down her cheeks, suitcase in hand, like some vagabond, like some overgrown foundling intruding on their holiday plans.

Kazumi had been dating some unremarkable dolt. A salaryman that Midorima had met once or twice, but never bothered to remember his face or anything else about him. He'd learned over the years that much like Kise's, Kazumi's social life resembled an automatic revolving door, like the ones found in airports or on the ground floor of most Tokyo skyscrapers - constantly streaming in a new influx of questionable suitors. And so he could hardly be blamed for not being able to conjure up anything specific about a man he didn't expect to see again.  

Apparently this one was different. They were serious enough (or foolish enough, in hindsight) to move in together. Takao swore he had told Midorima this, but Shintarō recalled nothing of the sort. Apparently the guy was also an idiot (in Shintarō's esteemed opinion they all were, it was a prerequisite for dating his sister-in-law as far as he could deduce) because he had forgotten his girlfriend worked at a bank and banks along with most of country were on holiday this week.

Kazumi, who for some inexplicable reason was besotted with the bloke, had gone down early that morning to the twenty-four hour convenience store on the ground floor of their apartment building to pick up some groceries and surprise him with an elaborate breakfast when he woke up. Instead, he was the one who'd surprised her when she'd caught him in bed, caught him in the very act of cheating on her.

After flinging just-purchased produce and smashing a bottle of soy sauce which narrowly missed her boyfriend's head, but left a dent and a large, black splotch on the back wall of their bedroom before dripping down to stain the tatami, effectively ensuring that they were never getting their security deposit back, she'd grabbed the few belongings she could fit in the nearest carryon, hailed a cab, and fled to the safety of her brother's apartment seeking refuge, perhaps some oolong tea, and a sympathetic ear.

In lieu of all that, she'd gotten bleary-eyed Midorima Shintarō still wearing his pajamas and a matching silk dressing gown. He was already frowning at her disapprovingly from his front door before she'd even spoken a word.

In truth, Kazumi had never been a very good judge of what constituted suitable boyfriend material. In middle school, she had wasted months vying for the romantic affections of the disgruntled man who'd opened the door to his home and begrudgingly let her in that morning. Unbeknownst to Kazumi at the time, she had embarked on a fool's errand. Midorima Shintarō, the then high school freshman and basketball ace with his distinctive hair color, unfairly long lashes, and piercing green eyes, had never once showed the slightest inclination towards women in general or Kazumi in particular.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Shin-chan is a brat and perhaps a teensy bit jealous, though in typical Midorima form he refuses to admit it and Takao has some rather unorthodox ways of dealing with his tsundere.

"Shin-chan."

"Shin-chan."

"Shin-chan."

Midorima pinched the bridge of his nose for what he felt was way too many times in one day. 

"What!" He snapped at Takao before deciding he didn't want to know. He could already tell from Takao's obnoxious, sing-songy tone that it wasn't anything terribly important.

Sometimes Midorima Shintarō thought he should have his head examined. Because not only did he willingly subject himself to this kind of torture, he'd married it.

He wasn't sure what Takao wanted. He didn't know what was so urgent that the hawkeye insisted on interrupting his thoughts while he was trying to decide between the pinot noir and the pinot grigio.

He could feel a headache coming on and so he did the sensible thing and walked away from its source.

Midorima was still angry with Takao for this morning. If Shintarō had had his way, he would've left his flighty sister-in-law behind in solitary confinement, made her housesit their penthouse for the week. He would've given her some alone time to reflect on her actions, to think about what she'd done wrong. He'd have put her on some richly deserved time out, the way all those parenting books he read recommended to correct bad behavior, never mind that he had yet to find the wherewithal to institute it upon his own children. Maybe she'd think twice before barging into other people's houses unannounced on the eve of their long-time, scheduled-well-in-advance vacation. It was all Takao's fault she was here to begin with.

There was exactly one grocery store on the tiny island and even that had been a recent addition. Back when Midorima had come here as a kid with his little sister and his parents there hadn't even been that. Back then vacationers (or more accurately their household help) had to haul a week's worth of groceries with them, travel back and forth on the ferry that connected the island to the mainland, or subsist on greasy squid and festival-type food from the vendors out on the pier.

The store was small, but carried the kinds of hard-to-come-by gourmet brands Midorima approved of even though he was a disaster in the kitchen and wouldn't know what to do with any of them if he'd brought them home.

The selection of fine wines had been a pleasant surprise and so far the highlight of Shintarō's day. He wasn't holding out much hope that it would get better than that. He had even been able to snag a hard to find vintage of a prized champagne, a bottle commonly sold at auction blocks, which he lovingly placed in Takao's shopping cart with all the care one would bestow upon a newborn babe. 

The precious find had stood forgotten, for heaven knows how long, collecting cob webs on the top shelf towards the back of the store (presumably overlooked by patrons and shop employees alike because most people weren't 195 centimeters in height) until Midorima came along and claimed it.

Shintarō meandered aimlessly through the store for a brief, but much needed interlude wherein he'd managed to tamp down his temper, before a bout of guilty feelings he'd never admit to caused him to "accidentally" bump into Takao again in the cheese aisle. Cheese was not a staple of the national diet, but that hadn't deterred the posh little shop from carry a whole aisle full of it which someone seemed to have arranged, unhelpfully, in alphabetical order.

Kazunari was pushing the small grocery cart with a bright-eyed, recharged from her nap Keiko-chan in the flip down child seat. The toddler had been "helping" her papa by eagerly pointing at various items she wanted him to procure for her from the shelves. Predictably, the cart was filled with junk food. Midorima gave Takao a reproving look that insisted he should know better, to which Takao responded with a defiant look of his own, which said in no uncertain terms, _I'd like to see you say "no" to her_.

Having been reunited with his beloved, his earlier, momentary lapse in social decorum having been forgiven by Kazunari in that silent way of his in which he pretended it never happen, Midorima's spirits had perked up considerably. His foul mood from this morning had all but evaporated, having been ameliorated in part by that green bottled, gold labeled, black foiled treasure tucked safely in the shopping cart which he snuck loving, surreptitious glances at when he thought no one was looking. Midorima's pleasant mood was short-lived, however.

Somewhere between the gouda and the gruyere, they came upon a heavily hootered hussy peddling her wares. She was dressed like a Bavarian milkmaid in knee-high white socks and a dirndl. The background behind her was a tableau of pastoral greens depicting a pair of painted on holsteins grazing on a hill. She stood behind a table that had been decorated in cheap construction paper to resemble a red barn. Her long, black hair was styled in a pair of braids that strategically rested on her large, surgically-enhanced chest. The aspiring homewrecker would give Satsuke a run for her money in the ample bosom department.

Midorima glared at her disdainfully as she waved a cube of imported cheese on a toothpick in front of his face. She'd already given one to Keiko-chan who'd popped it into her mouth and promptly spit it back out, looking very much like she'd been given a lemon to suck on. To Midorima's immense pleasure, his toddler had handed it back to the wench from whence it came. That hateful woman had had no choice but to accept the now slobbered piece of rejected cheese with a fake smile plastered onto her face. Not for the first time, Midorima thought his daughter was perfect.

She'd saved the last piece for Takao gazing up at him like he was a sausage link and she was a stray dog. She had looked at him through false eyelashes with practiced shyness and for the first time in his life Midorima Shintarō bit back the ridiculous urge to remind Kazunari that his own lashes were thicker, longer, and real.

When Takao took the cheese from the tarted-up trollop, she giggled delightedly at him tossing her braids in a way that made Shintarō question exactly what she'd meant by free samples.

She was young, about his sister's age, though Shintarō would give up his left testicle (Takao would most certainly have something to say about that) before he'd let Shuzuko shameless flirt with married men for a living.

Even if the faux milkmaid was too dim to realize they were a couple, Takao was obviously wearing a wedding band and had a child in tow who called him "papa." 

They had an unspoken rule -- no fighting in front of the children -- which made it all the more difficult for Midorima to properly voice his displeasure about the situation. 

Feeling gagged and unable to express himself freely (i.e. rant), he decided he needed to walk it off (again) and leave Takao to his own devices, only to bump into Kazumi and Kichiro in the very next aisle.

His sister-in-law was picking up extra diapers and apparently a squeaky toy which his son had already laid claim to by sticking it in his mouth. Predictably, Kazumi had selected the wrong size and Midorima, in a moment of petty childishness, rushed over to her eager to point out she was wrong.

On closer inspection, he noticed the squeaky toy in his son's mouth was suspiciously shaped like a mouse. Midorima had no doubts about which aisle his son had picked the toy up from and which species the toy was intended for. But he knew if he snatched it out of his toddler's mouth now, he'd set off a five-alarm wail that would rival the ones at that idiot Kagami's fire station.

Midorima knew this from personal experience. He was still afraid to show his face at Mitsukoshi because of the epic fit Kichiro had pitched over a stuffed carrot he'd wanted from the children's department. His son was very protective of the things he loved and the rodent disposal business would have to wait until he fell asleep.

Just then an old woman approached them, making googlely eyes at Kichiro.

"What a beautiful baby," she said, marveling at the little boy in Kazumi's arms.

Kichi-chan, sensing he had an audience, momentarily took the squeaky toy out of his mouth and smiled up at the woman, proudly showing off all four of his teeth.

Kazumi beamed at him looking every bit the doting aunt that she was.

"Look at that face," the woman cooed. "He's obviously very clever. And what a beautiful young mother. Your husband must be so pleased."

Shintarō froze, feeling like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over his head.

"Oh. This isn't my husband," Kazumi immediately corrected the woman as she adjusted the baby on her hip. "This is my brother-in--"

Shintarō didn't wait around to hear the end of the explanation or to hear the woman's apologies. He stormed out of the store in a huff.

Rationally, he could understand the woman's mistake. No one outside of his family looked like him. If he were to ever run into another person with green hair, he or she would assuredly be a relative (however distant) on his father's side.

But Takao had dark hair, like their children. And so people naturally, though incorrectly, assumed he was the children's biological father. People rarely made this assumption about Midorima, at first glance. It was only upon hearing one of the children refer to him as "daddy," or in Kichiro's case "da da," that most people made the connection.

There was an unmistakable family resemblance between Kazumi and Kazunari. They both had the same steel grey, all-seeing eyes and the same dark hair color. So naturally it shouldn't have surprised Midorima that Kazumi had just been mistaken for Kichiro's mother. It probably wasn't even the first time it had happened in the eleven plus months the children had been home, but it was the first time he had heard it and it burned him to the core. This whole business of motherhood had been a huge sore spot lately.

The comment didn't just rub Shintarō the wrong way because he was mad at his sister-in-law. It rubbed him raw. Because the one thing he and Kazunari couldn't provide to their children was a mother and he never wanted them to feel like they were missing out.

 _It was par for the course_ , Midorima thought poisonously as he got into the car, slamming the door shut. The perfect way to top off the 'splendid' day he was having.

Once the others had finished with their shopping and got back into the car, Shintarō proclaimed to no one in particular, "That woman was a imbecile," and jabbed his seatbelt into its buckle. 

Kazunari and Kazumi each thought he was referring to a different woman and Kichi-chan squeezed the toy mouse with his teeth causing it to squeak in agreement.

###

Midorima was the first the cross the threshold, a suitcase in each hand.

" _Niiiiiiiiice_!" Takao announced as he walked in behind him, carrying a child in his arms.

They had rented a fully furnished bungalow on the island. Its back porch was mere steps from the pristine, white sandy beach and then the ocean.

Vigilant as always, Midorima put the suitcases down to test the lock on the french glass doors and make sure it was properly working.

Because it was supposed to be just the four of them -- his spouse and his two small children -- the bungalow Shintarō had rented was modest in size, unlike the behemoths he'd stayed in when he was a boy.

It consisted of an open kitchen spilling out into the small living room and two bedrooms adjoined by a jack-and-jill bath.

Takao always complained that Midorima went overboard when it came hotel accommodations -- like the time he booked the presidential suite for their honeymoon and it turned out to have twice the number of bedrooms per occupant.

Takao conveniently forgot that once he was there, he couldn't stop gushing over the view of the iconic, iron lattice tower outside their balcony. And he certainly didn't complain when the room came equipped with a full-sized dining room table which had ended up being used for purposes other than dining (on food) and a baby grand piano which Midorima had played for him every night, taking Kazunari's song requests like a lovesick lounge player because it was their honeymoon and the glint from the metal band newly affixed to Takao's ring finger had him spellbound. Midorima was gracious enough not to point any of these things out, _much_.

The selection of this small, two-bedroom, one-bathroom bungalow was meant to show Takao that Shintarō did listen to his gripes and on occasion modified his behavior accordingly. It was meant to show that he wasn't as stubborn and hard headed as Takao believed him to be.

It was supposed to be cozy, but the addition of a fifth, unwelcomed wheel made the place feel cramped and stifling the minute Shintarō had crossed the threshold.

Midorima had anticipated this problem, of course. He'd even phoned the rental company on the drive down to try and remedy it. And all he got for his trouble was a derisive laugh and a loud click signifying the end of a very short conversation. Because the call had been placed through the car's sound system, it had been a tad humiliating. Takao's obnoxious, snorting laugh all because Shintarō got hung up on didn't help matters.

After it became clear he wasn't going to be able to shake his sister-in-law off, he'd been hoping to get Kazumi a room of her own, preferably on the opposite end of the island. Midorima had been sorely tempted to leave her behind at the rest stop when she took way too long crying in a bathroom stall and was the last one to get back in the car.

You'd think people who dealt in luxury rental properties would be a bit more courteous. Shintarō could've well become a repeat customer. The woman on the phone should've considered this and been a bit nicer to him. But it seemed the entire country had gone on vacation and left their less tactful underlings behind to take care of business.

Of course he knew the island was booked solid and had been for months. Of course he knew what day it was, that schools were out and everyone was on holiday. It explained why his sister-in-law apparently had no place else to be, like work. She should've spent her day moping around in her cubicle instead of the back seat of Shintarō's car.

Of course he knew all this but there _were_ such things as last minute cancellations and dire emergencies (one could always hope). No one ever accused Midorima Shintarō of being an optimist. It was a grave oversight he thought as he humphed in indignation carrying his family's mountainous luggage like an overworked bell hop. All he'd wanted, at the very least, was to inquire if they could possibly upgrade to a larger bungalow.

After his third trip to the car he was muttering curses at Kazunari under his breath. Midorima had packed his own suitcase (mostly because he didn't trust Takao, with his avant-garde taste, to pick out his clothes; he didn't particularly feel like walking around all week looking like he belonged in a band that used synthesizers), but he had left the business of packing the children's things (construction cone colored shorts didn't come in children's sizes, thankfully) and Takao's things to the hawkeye.

What the hell was Takao thinking when he packed all these suitcases. What the hell had he been thinking when he had outsourced the job to Takao. _Oh_ , that's right, he was busy performing brain surgery. Though with the way his head was pounding, Shintarō felt like he could only benefit from a lobotomy right about now.

The thing was they didn't even feel heavy. Surely Takao could've consolidated the contents of some of the suitcases and drastically reduced their number. And to think Kazunari had the nerve to accuse him of overpacking just because he liked to keep his things in those nifty organized travel bags.

After his fourth trip to the car, curiosity got the better of him and he opened one of these magically light suitcases. _Toys_ , he discovered.

He was carrying a stable's worth of pink plastic ponies, an assortment of stuffed animals and a baby doll who looked vaguely familiar only because he recalled driving back in the pouring rain to retrieve the jilted moppet after her teary-eyed owner had accidentally left her behind at a cat cafe in Shimokitazawa. How Midorima, who had a profound and lifelong hatred of felines, had been bamboozled into going to a cat cafe by a certain little girl in the first place, was something he'd rather not talk about. 

It was obvious Takao had not packed most of their bags. Kazunari hadn't lost his mind, _yet_. Shintarō just hoped at least one valise among the panoply of matching black suitcases contained something useful, like a toothbrush or a change of clothes.

###

They had gotten such a late start that morning and had wasted so much time in that awful grocery store that by the time they had unpacked the car and finished dinner it was already the children's bedtime.

If Midorima were feeling charitable, if he were feeling kind, if he'd taken pity on his sister-in-law, he would've moved the crib they had rented for Kichiro out of the spare room into the master bedroom and allowed Keiko-chan to sleep between them on the larger bed.

But Midorima was feeling none of those things and so he'd left Kichiro's crib where it was and tucked Keiko into the single bed in the spare room, leaving Kazumi to figure out the logistics of how she was going to share a bed with her niece. He also neglected to mention to her that Keiko-chan liked to kick in her sleep and that Kichiro sometimes woke up in the middle of the night.

###

Takao knew from personal experience that Shin-chan bruised like a grape. He also knew that that spectacular hue of plum on Midorima's pale inner thigh didn't get there because he'd bumped his leg into the coffee table. Shin-chan was the opposite of clumsy. In fact, there was a fluidity and grace to his movements that Takao could only describe as feline. Combine that with a voice that was rich and deep and wickedly sinful and it was a wonder Takao got anything done at all when Shin-chan was home.

Takao liked to leave marks, trails to places he'd been to and places he liked to revisit. And there was just enough moonlight flooding into their room that he could do just that -- follow the trails, follow the day-old lovebites to secret, hidden locations only he, no one else, had treaded upon.

Predictably, Shin-chan had profusely denied being jealous of the milkmaid from the supermarket when Takao had teased him about it earlier. But it was Kazunari who liked to mark his property. 

At that very moment it was blissfully quiet, save for the roll of the waves outside their open window. Shin-chan had gone silent, understandably so. At home, the master bedroom and the rest of the bedrooms were strategically placed on opposite ends of the penthouse and there was a ridiculous about of space between them. There just wasn't a concern about being overheard. 

If that fist pressed tightly against his mouth was any indication, Shin-chan was trying to be as quiet as a mouse. Normally, Takao would try to coax him into being more vocal -- not that he needed much encouragement, but with only a shared bathroom separating them from the next room, he thought better of it.

At the moment Shin-chan wasn't trying to say much of anything. He wasn't complaining about unwanted houseguests or uncomfortably close quarters. At the moment, Takao -- would wager -- Shin-chan wasn't thinking much of anything beyond Kazunari's lips and his tongue and his talentedly absent gag reflex

###

Much later that night, Midorima was tossing and turning. He had been for quite some time and his nocturnal frustrations culminated in the form of a dramatic sigh.

Takao abandoned his own, mostly futile efforts to fall back asleep. It was hard to ignore 79 kilograms of restlessness.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, unsure of how thick or thin the walls were in their rented bedroom.

"It's too low," Midorima huffed.

"What?" Kazunari hadn't the foggiest idea what his husband was going on about.

"The thread count. It's not high enough," he said, gesturing at the sheets.

Takao rolled his eyes. For reasons that were entirely too obvious, Shintarō's grievance about the bedding called to mind the story of the princess and the pea that he'd read to Keiko-chan several hours ago when he was putting her to bed.

"Goodnight, Princess Shin-chan," he yawned, before rolling onto his side and falling asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**tw:** brief, vague reference to child neglect by biological parent.

* * *

Shin-chan was on the phone with Aomine and had been for some time. The police officer had called his friend the doctor three times already throughout the night and again early this morning. Takao knew this because he'd been woken up each time Shintarō's mobile began to buzz.

Shin-chan had been able to diagnose the ear infection over the phone almost immediately and had even told Daiki what medicine to ask his pediatrician to call in to the pharmacist (Shintarō refused to issue prescriptions for people who weren't his patients and had even forced Takao to make an appointment with his receptionist once just so he could get some much needed meds). But that hadn't stopped the nervous detective from calling again and again and again.

Aomine was in the unenviable position of being a new dad with a fussy one-month-old baby on hand. To say he was freaking out was putting it mildly. Takao could relate. He could recall all too clearly the first couple of months after he and Shin-chan had become parents. For starters, there had been that mad rush to buy a second car seat and Shintarō was a nervous wreck on the streets of Tokyo as he drove their precious cargo home for the very first time. The needle on his speedometer wouldn't have registered any difference if he'd put the car on neutral. His overly cautiously driving effectively ensured his young children were exposed to very colorful language and creative hand gestures from fellow motorists as they were passed on the road by every other vehicle and one ambitious bicyclist.

Takao didn't fare much better. He quickly learned that the laissez-faire, live-and-let-live, devil-may-care attitude that had served him well in his then twenty-eight years of life abruptly fell out of their 47-story window and into Tokyo Bay the minute he became a father. Every sniffle, every unexplained cough had driven a new steak of panic into the both of them.

Takao "Relax Shin-chan, what's the worst than can happen" Kazunari was no more, at least when it came to his children. When it came to his friends, however, he was alive and well. _You want to dip yourself in red body paint and run with the bulls next summer, Kagami? I don't see why not._ (In fairness to Takao, Kagami _did_ run in to burning buildings for a living which was only slightly less dangerous. The murderous gaze Kuroko had given Takao when he'd encouraged the ginger's travel itinerary told him he had other opinions on the matter).

He couldn't decide whether having a doctor as a co-parent was a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, Shintarō had at his disposal the collective knowledge of colleagues in almost every specialty and state-of-the-art medical equipment at his fingertips. On the other hand, he was much too well informed about obscure diseases that the average parent wouldn't have even heard of, much less worry about. Like the time they thought Keiko might have dengue fever and it had turned out to be just a cold or when the raised bump that had sprouted on Kichiro's forearm was just a bug bite and not malaria, thank heavens.

As Midorima tried to assuage Aomine over the phone (which was easier said than done, given that Shintarō was neither patient nor particularly nurturing by nature), he walked over to the couch to fish out a toy mouse that had been so thoroughly abandoned by one of his children that only its tail was sticking out from between the seat cushions. Midorima pulled it out by said tail, holding it disgustedly in between his middle finger and thumb and away from his body as he carried it into the kitchen with the same trepidation one would ascribe to transporting an actual dead rodent.

He'd put his dominant foot down onto the step trashcan to raise the lid and was seconds away from disposing of the offending object when his daughter glomped onto his other leg in a fit of urgent affection begging (or rather demanding) to be picked up. He immediately set the toy mouse down on the counter in favor of picking her up.

Their friend's anxiety was understandable, especially since it was a bank holiday and most the country including the Aomine's pediatrician was on holiday. Not coincidently, it was the same pediatrician they took Keiko and Kichiro to and as a result he was the best one in the capital, possibly the country. Shintarō was nothing if not through when it came to the health and wellbeing of his family.

Aomine had been nervous about taking his infant son to the man's understudy, which Midorima understood completely. He'd dealt with the backup doctor a few times before and was of the opinion that the on-call doctor was an idiot. In fairness, Shin-chan thought most people were idiots and it couldn't have been easy for the man to deal with an extremely overprotective parent who was not only a fellow doctor (and with far better credentials), but one who vociferously second guessed everything the man said. It wasn't the first time Takao had felt secondhand embarrassment for someone who was unaccustomed to dealing with Shin-chan's bluntness.

Shin-chan's vocal distrust of the substitute pediatrician had undermined Aomine's own faith in the man and so the former power forward was calling Shin-chan (repeatedly) for a second opinion. Maybe it was the fact that Shin-chan had had to unexpectedly deliver _this_ baby that had Aomine conveniently forgetting that Shin-chan's actual specialty was in the field of neurosurgery and not pediatrics. He could always blame it on his sleep deprived mind.

They had last visited baby Aomine a few days before they'd left for their vacation. Keiko-chan couldn't get enough of the new baby. It was all she would talk about on the long drive over to Aomine and Momoi's.

Tokyo was enormous and the Aomines lived clear across town, but Takao wasn't convinced driving there had been the most practical option. Having a car in the city didn't make financial sense for most people and they had _two_ of them. For starters, traffic was horrendous at any given time of the day or night and once you reached your destination, parking (if you could find one) cost a whole lot of yen. It was something Shintarō never noticed because his commute generally consisted of driving to and from the hospital and he had permanent, choice parking spaces in both places.

Takao had an assigned parking space at home (their penthouse had come with two of them), but everywhere else he went was a different story. And he refused to pay for valet, because unlike Shin-chan he understood the value of money. Well, except when it came to clothes. It was Takao's one weakness.

It would've made far more sense to take a cab, except cabs didn't carry car seats and Shin-chan was a little obsessed with safety where the children were concerned. They could've also taken the subway to visit their friends, but someone's husband had developed an allergy to public transportation. It was a curious case of a selective, adult onset allergy, given that Takao could recall _plenty_ of times when he and Shin-chan had taken the metro in high school and uni, usually in search of a lucky item.

The exhausted new parents practically handed their infant bundle of joy over to their longtime friends the minute they walked through the door.

Shin-chan, ever the doctor, and unsure of what to do with babies who weren't his own, had examined the tyke and having determined that everything was in good working order, medically speaking, had passed him off to Takao.

Shin-chan was socially awkward, even with people who were too young to have developed any social skills and had been on the planet all of one month. He was still warming up to baby Aomine. When it came to his own children, however, Midorima had been completely head-above-heels ridiculous over them since the day they brought them home from the orphanage. Takao who suffered from no such infirmities when it came to babies had cooed and coddled and made silly faces at the tiny creature inside the pale blue blankets. 

Keiko-chan's maternal instincts were in high gear during their visit, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Takao had seen the way Keiko-chan played with her dollies -- she'd drop them on the floor, give them baths until she got distracted, leaving them submersed in the bathroom sink for hours, their once silky hair getting all mangled and unrecognizable (leaving for papa the unenviable task of brushing out tangled doll hair). She'd give them "hair cuts" using blunt, safety scissors, leave them behind in the hot car -- or worse, leave them behind at restaurants or in the sandbox at the park only to remember hours later in a fit of tears that inevitably sent Shin-chan on a lost dolly scavenger hunt all over Tokyo. Suspiciously, his recovery rate was 100 percent -- you could say some of the dolls his brought back looked as good as new, though Keiko-chan never seemed to notice. All this to say that Takao didn't dare let her hold the new baby.

Instead, they reached a compromise where Takao sat on the rocker in the nursery carrying the month-old old and Keiko-chan could, very gently, pet the baby's socked foot. She even kissed it which melted her papa's heart and just about turned him into a puddle of goo.

Kichiro was not as obsessed with the new baby as his sister was. In fact, he'd paid him no heed until Kazunari held the babe so Keiko-chan could have a closer look. It was then that the baby came onto Kichi-chan's radar and even then, he became much more interested in staking his own claim on his father's lap.

Although Takao was sure Kichi-chan and the baby would grow up to be the best of friends, maybe even play basketball together the way their fathers had, it was all in due time. For now, it was clear that Kichiro didn't know what to make of the baby and so he'd settled on the label of rival. It was then that Shin-chan interceded by picking up Kichi-chan, who'd been trying to climb onto the rocker his father was sitting in, and taking him out on the balcony to examine the Aomine's bird feeder. It was a rusty old, sunbaked contraption that had been on the Aomine's wedding registry and seemed to have been abandoned by its owners as they went about their daily lives. The thing looked like it hadn't been refilled in years, if that.

It was then that Keiko-chan lost all interest in the baby in favor of being carried by her father and shown the same attention that Midorima was bestowing on Kichi-chan. This left Takao alone with the baby. The baby's parents -- all too happy to have someone experienced and trustworthy watching their offspring -- were in bed together catching up on lost sleep, unperturbed that it was the middle of the afternoon and they had guests.

The baby had soft, downy wisps of hair the color of Momoi's which may have explained Keiko-chan's enamoredness with the little tyke -- she loved all things pink. He had Aomine's dusky complexion and his piercing blue eyes. He was going to be a handsome little devil and he was going to stay far away from his little girl, Takao had decided.

In fact, he might just casually mention it to Shintarō. Because if anyone had the build and the personality to be the overprotective, intimidating father, it was his Shin-chan. Takao laughed. The possibility of an Aomine in the family would probably be enough to keep Shin-chan up at night.

The new baby had caused a spark of curiosity in Keiko-chan. She had raised more questions than Kazunari had been prepared to answer.

The most heartbreaking of all, the one that had made his eyes water when he thought about it later, was: _what was I like at that age._

Of course, Keiko-chan hadn't asked it so quite eloquently.  _I was a baby too, papa?_  was all she had said. At the time Takao had chuckled. On many levels he found the question endearing, because as much as she liked to think of herself as a big girl, to him she was still very much a baby. Right now the answer was an honest, easy "yes."

But one day she'd ask it a little differently, and Kichiro would too, and they would be old enough to understand and Takao would have to answer truthfully that he didn't know what they were like when they were really little, that daddy and papa didn't know them yet.

He'd tell them Keiko had been adopted at 17 months and Kichiro at three months. But that they had been a family much longer than that. And if they asked why they were in an orphanage in the first place, Takao wasn't sure what he would say.

He also didn't think it would do any good to tell Keiko-chan that they had originally intended to adopt a baby boy and that by happenstance, because Shintarō was through enough to read _everything_ ,they had discovered that Kichiro had a sister, something the orphanage director had neglected to mention because he didn't think they'd be interested in adopting two children at once. That part of their story wasn't important because the fact of the matter was they had adopted both of them and they couldn't imagine life without either of them. 

The children were full siblings. He would be able to tell them that much with absolute confidence. It was in their adoption file and Midorima had run the blood work at the hospital to confirm it. It was important for health reasons. He and Takao didn't have the advantage of an accurate, reliable family history -- it was a closed adoption and the scant background information about the children in the adoption file came from their birthmother.

Neither one of them had never met the woman, they had no desire to, but given the circumstances which had landed the children in the orphanage to begin with, they trusted the children's birthmother's account about as much as they trusted a used car salesman, which was to say not at all -- and so they had resorted to genetic testing to get a more accurate picture of the children's biological family tree.

"She's not going to remember that place," Midorima had told him, when Takao had talked to him about it later.

"Early childhood memories don't go that far back," he'd assumed him and then gave him an irritated look that said Takao would know all this if he'd just read the parenting books the way Midorima had.

Takao couldn't say he was blindsided. He had seen the questions coming. He had fretted all throughout Momoi's pregnancy. As the months passed and Momoi inflated like a helium balloon, he worried that his little girl would ask where babies come from, or more importantly where she'd come from.

Keiko-chan had known that there was a baby in Aunt Satsuki's belly. They had told her as much. She had even felt the baby kick once or twice and in a heartwarming moment that had made Takao's eyes water like the sentimental sap that he was, she'd even kissed Aunt Satsuki's belly and told the baby that she couldn't wait to play with it.

At the time they didn't know what Momoi was having because the parents-to-be had wanted it to be a surprise. Takao had thought it was sweet and thought that if he were in their shoes he'd want to be surprised too. But Shin-chan had rolled his eyes at the pair of them the way he rolled his eyes whenever anyone eschewed modern medical advancements, like he was encountering a couple of backwoods Neanderthals.

While they purposely reinforced in their children the fact that families came in all types and sizes, talking to them about it whenever the subject crept up. Takao couldn't escape the biological reality that babies came from mommies and that Keiko-chan and Kichi-chan didn't have a mommy. They had a daddy and a papa who loved them very much.

He and Midorima had made it a point to read them children's books that illustrated this truism. Because no matter how much Shintarō was in denial, one day his children would have to leave the protective nest of their 47th-floor Tokyo high rise, penthouse apartment (which Shin-chan had predictably child-proofed within an inch of its life and effectively bubbled wrapped before the ink was even dry on the adoption papers - _Man proposes_ and all that). And there would inevitably be one idiot kid (there was always at least one in every year) in their preschool class who'd been dropped on his head one too many times who'd insist that Keiko-chan and her brother must have a mommy because _everyone_ has a mommy.

And that would be it. That would be the exact moment some snot-nosed brat made his little girl cry. For the first time in her life, she'd feel like she was missing something.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, let me get this straight. You had the sunblock in your back pocket the whole time?!"

Shin-chan was pale to begin with. Deathly pale, his pallor not unlike a block of cold tofu. And it didn't help that on most days, he spent the majority of his daylight hours toiling under florescent bulbs in a windowless (sunless) operating room. So when Takao caught sight of him through the glass panes of the french doors walking in from the beach and into the living room trailing crumbly grains of sand in behind him like a protagonist in a Grimm's fairy tale, the hawkeye couldn't help but flinch with sympathy pain. Shin-chan's skin was ablaze and he looked very much like something that could've crawled out of a bisque.

The green-haired giant stomped right past his stunned, wide-eyed husband, ignoring one Takao Kazunari and directing his murderous gaze to one Takao Kazumi. His attention was fixed accusingly and single-mindedly on his sister-in-law like a laser beam preceding a sniper's shot.

Kazumi, still unaware of the daggers that were being stared at her, was sitting cross-legged on the couch eating soba noodles and laughing, in between mouthfuls, at the television set. Having been sucked in and thoroughly absorbed like only bad television programming can do, she was and had been momentarily distracted from her troubles. And with a bit of fish sauce dribbling down her chin, she looked several years younger, several degrees happier than she had at any point since they'd embarked on this forlorn family vacation. She looked like the very picture of youthful innocence, blissfully unaware of whatever transgression was about to be lain at her feet.

She and her brother were in the middle of watching a show. One of those awful game shows where they make an unlucky pair of participants don all sorts of ridiculous costumes while competing against the opposing pair of equally maligned contestants in whatever excessively humiliating task the sadistic producer and his minions conjured up in a staff meeting the week before. At the moment, one of the contestants, wearing nothing but a bib and a giant diaper, was wheeling around his similarly clad partner in a large shopping cart dressed up to look like a pram trying to maneuver through a slippery obstacle course covered in shaving cream, before the other team made it to the finish line.

It was a nod to the old days, it had been a beloved ritual -- eating in front of the old rabbit-eared television set, the way most families gather to worship in front of a shrine. Back then, back before Kazunari moved out of the family home to go to uni and moved in with Shin-chan, the Takao clan used to gather on a nightly basis in their modest, but inviting living room to shout at their television set over reheated, home cooked meals that tasted better precisely because they'd had time to stew in their juices. 

"What happened to you?" She asked when Midorima stood between her and the television set, finally pulling her out of her trance when she could no longer watch her show. Being a younger sister, Kazumi was not above raising childish, obvious questions just to get under Midorima's already overheated skin.

"You!" A fuming Shintarō responded inelegantly, too enraged at the present to form a more complete explanation.

His body was thrumming with anger. Unfortunately for him, he picked that very moment to take off his prescription aviators revealing two very white ovals around his eyes where his designer sunglasses had blocked the sun's rays. He looked like an angry fire ferret.

Midorima had spent the better part of that morning (coincidently, when the sun's UV rays were at its strongest) wandering in circles around the island like some castaway on a syndicated show looking for his ditzy sister-in-law who had taken his children outside and left the lone bottle of sunscreen behind on the kitchen counter.

It was now clear to him given that Kazumi hadn't so much as broken in a tan line that she and the children hadn't remained outside for long, but _no one_ had bothered to call, text, send smoke signals, or otherwise communicate that to him, much less let him know lunch was ready.

Predictably, Kazumi dissolved into fits of giggles in response to Midorima's painful predicament. It was an unfortunate family trait. Takao was once kicked out of a great aunt's funeral for laughing during the eulogoy and Midorima had never been more mortified in his entire life. That was exactly how the green haired tsundere had phrased it too, when they stopped for sushi on the way home afterwards. Takao's response had been that Shin-chan should've thanked him for getting both of them out of that boring funeral. From Takao's vantage point, it had all worked out for the best since he was hungry anyway and the mourners were only just getting started. Takao was really and truly shameless.

Kazumi's laughter served to further enrage the 195 centimeter doctor. If Midorima were a cartoon bull, he would've had steam coming out of his ears. As it was, he felt like he could spit nails.

Shintarō hated feeling like he was being ridiculed, which was unfortunate for him because he was so very often misunderstood by others and unfairly caricaturized as being ridiculous.

Kazumi, like Kazunari, was prone to laughter at the most inopportune times and Shintarō for all his bristly exterior, had a very sensitive, easily offended underbelly.

Takao knew this of course, it was part of the wonderment that was Midorima Shintarō, and he loved every part of him, the prickly exterior and most of all the tender, vulnerable interior Shin-chan revealed only to him and even then, only on rare occasions.

Sensing Mount Midorima's impending volcanic eruption and not wanting to wake up the children during their mind afternoon nap, Takao quickly interceded by grabbing his husband's hand and taking him into the bedroom.

###

"So, let me get this straight." He said as he quietly shut the door behind him. "You had the sunblock in your back pocket the whole time?"

Midorima made an affronted noise which neither confirmed, nor denied the obvious.

"That's not the point. The point is that _she_  didn't take it with her when she took the children out." 

"Did it occur to you that maybe she had slathered it on them _before_ heading out? Or that she wasn't going to stay out long enough to need to reapply it?"

Shintarō's silence all but affirmed that _no, he hadn't thought about that_. In his haste to be angry with Kazumi about _something_ , he'd failed to consider other possibilities, he sort of just assumed.

"C'mon Shin-chan. She's not irresponsible."

Midorima bit his lip, only to quickly release it because it too was sunburnt and hurt like the dickens. Takao's proclamation recalled to Shintarō's sharp mind the time Kazumi had been so scatterbrained she'd forgotten to set her alarm clock the night before her college entrance exams and would've missed them if not for her parents' Herculean efforts to get her to the school auditorium on time and how several weeks after that she'd done it again and this time she did miss the flight for her senior class trip. His in-laws, enables even back then, had to drive her all the way up to Sapporo. And how, just a few weeks ago she'd gotten into an alcohol-fueled tiff with a gal pal during a bachelorette party over, of all things, whether one male celebrity was more attractive than another male celebrity, and had shown up drunk and crying on their doorstep in the wee hours of the morning still wearing a pink plastic phallus on her head like a party hat. He _really_ needed to have a stern talking to with their doorman about his unfortunate penchant for letting Kazumi waltz through their building at all hours, no questions asked. 

And those incidents were just the first three that came to his mind. There were more. So many more, Shintarō could write a whole book from memory, multiple volumes even, filled with Kazumi's nonsense, if he were so inclined. But when it came to her niece and nephew, when it came to his children, Shintarō had to begrudgingly agree that Takao had a point. She'd been nothing if not a model aunt, not that he was going to admit that out loud. Least of all right now, when he still had a bone to pick with her.

"What are you doing?" Midorima asked miserably. He was sitting at the foot of the bed while Takao ruffled through their suitcases and turned Shin-chan's toiletry kit inside out.

"Looking for the bottle of aloe."

"I didn't bring any."

"What?" Takao asked stupidly, shocked that someone as overly cautious and paranoid as his Shin-chan had failed to pack such an essential item.

Shintarō rolled his eyes as if Kazunari was the dumbest person on the planet, "I packed a large bottle of sunscreen. I was planning on using copious amounts on the three of us and reapplying often. I didn't think we'd need any --"

Takao got up from the floor, abandoning his fruitless search for the missing item and grabbed Shin-chan's keys from the dresser. The island was small enough that he could easily walk to the grocery store and normally he would've preferred to do so, but Midorima was in a terrible mood and he was wary of leaving Shin-chan to his own devices.

"Where are you going?" Now, it was Takao's turn to roll his eyes and look at Shin-chan like he was very, very slow.

"To go buy some," he said from the door frame. Takao glanced down the hall, catching a glimpse of his sister still stuffing her face with noodles, before snorting some of them out, laughing at something someone had done on television. Takao winced. He could see all too easily how Shin-chan might mistakenly think she was laughing at him, if he ventured unsupervised into the living room. Then there would be shouting and tears and the slamming of doors and at least one, or maybe both of them, would storm off and the children would wake up for sure. And all hell would break loose.

He turned to Midorima and held his gaze, intent on giving him strict directives not to move from this spot and for a split second he panicked because Shin-chan had switched to wearing his normal glasses now and Takao could see why Kazumi had laughed. He wanted to laugh too, because, really Shin-chan looked preposterous with those aviator-shaped tan lines around his eyes. But then he thought of how hurt and betrayed those eyes would look if Shin-chan thought Takao was mocking him too and Kazunari sobered up. The hilarity of the situation evaporated immediately. Shin-chan had entrusted him with his fragile heart years ago, before they were even out of high school, and Takao would never betray that gift.

"Shin-chan," he said in his Shūtoku captain's voice, "you are to take a cold shower and you are not to leave this room until I get back _."_

It was a tone he used to use on the underclassmen to show he meant business. It was a tone he'd had to develop when he was promoted to captain of the King of the East's basketball team because he was normally such a clown that his kōhai teammates couldn't tell when he was being serious. It was a bossy, no nonsense tone that lost some of its effect by Takao's use of Midorima's affectionate nickname. Even so, he saw his husband balk in surprise, taken aback at having never been spoken to that way by Kazunari.

And then the corners of Shin-chan's lips quirked up in amusement, briefly, just for a millisecond, before he donned a scowl and muttered, "Aye, aye, Captain," in a dismissive, put upon tone, as he grabbed a towel and grumbled his way into the bathroom.

Takao could tell Shin-chan had liked it, he had actually liked being ordered around. It was interesting, unexpected data, a tantalizing bit of information he filed away for future exploration.

###

When Takao returned just ten minutes later, bottle of aloe in hand, he found Midorima obediently sitting at the foot of the bed, hair damp with a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. He looked bored as he stared disinterestedly at the floral wallpaper on the opposite end of the room.

Takao felt sorry for him. Undoubtedly, Shintarō had behaved appallingly since before they had even left their penthouse apartment. His mood became abysmal the minute he realized Kazumi was coming with them. It would be all too easy to dismiss Shin-chan's multiple outbursts as childish, bratty behavior. To yell at him and be angry with him for treating his sister, who was clearly nursing a broken heart, like a pariah. But Takao saw through the smokescreen of tirades and tantrums befitting a toddler. 

Takao thought long and hard about the situation until he got to the root of the problem, until he figured out to what was really bothering his Shin-chan. It was the reason Kazunari considered himself uniquely qualified to take care of Shin-chan, to handle him with thoughtfulness and understanding. Where others including his parents, former coaches, Teiko teammates and current colleagues, dismissed Midorima Shintarō's multitude of social faux pas as eccentricities or personality quirks (and heaven knows he had those too, in spades), Takao tried to find the motives behind Shin-chan's sometimes seemingly inexplicably actions. Because while Midorima was always logical, he was often misunderstood.

After some contemplation, Takao had figured out where Shintarō was coming from. Midorima worked hard, harder than all the other doctors at the hospital and he deserved this vacation. All Shin-chan had wanted was to spend some time with his family, his _immediate_ family. Takao wanted those things as well, but his sister was family too and she needed him right now.

With all this in mind, Takao approached Shin-chan on the bed more indulgently than he'd felt about him this morning.

Shin-chan looked like he'd been dipped in red body paint. He looked like one of those guys who showed up to Shūtok's basketball games with kanji characters written on their stomachs. Well, maybe not at Shūtoku, their colors were orange, black and white. It would probably be more like Serin which had red in their uniforms. Every school had these guys. And they were always guys, girls had more self respect than to bear their midriffs for a game. They'd line up next to each other so they could spell out some inspirational phrase and cheer the team on. As a player, Takao had always appreciated these guys and on the rare occasions when the mighty King of the East couldn't deliver a victory, he'd always felt apologetic about it because these guys would have to then ride the subway home in that ridiculous body paint. 

 "Ouch. Watch it," Shin-chan hissed. Takao was applying the aloe as gingerly as he possible could, but it was a pretty intense sunburn. Shin-chan had been thoroughly roasted. The parts of him that had been exposed to the sun were going to hurt, no matter what Kazunari did.

"I'm doing the best I can," he told an incredulous Midorima. "Standup so I can do the back of your calves."

Shin-chan's skin was warm underneath Takao's open palms and still slightly moist from his recent shower. Takao could tell Shin-chan hadn't wanted to towel his let off and who could blame him.

Takao took the towel that had been around Shin-chan's waist and began drying Midorima's hair for him when the tsundere sat back down again. It was clear he hadn't wanted to lift his sunburned arms to dry his hair either.

Shin-chan smelled nice. He smelled like expensive shampoo, the kind they only sell at upscale department stores or in salons and he smelled of triple milled soap. It was a smell that had driven Takao crazy in high school trying to figure out where he could buy some so he could secretly smell Shin-chan whenever he wanted. For months he'd sniffed every bar of soap and bottle of body wash he came across at supermarkets and drug stores, before finally giving up when his mother had commented on his strange behavior. Of course he'd been looking in all the wrong places. Takao now knew the boutique it came from. On occasion, Shin-chan would send him to Ginza to go fetch him some when he was running low.

"I feel like my entire body has been in a kiln," Shin-chan commented miserably.

"Not all of you," Takao responded pointedly as he placed the damp towel on the bed next the Shin-chan and knelt in front of him.

Avoiding large swaths of (sunburnt) skin was new for Kazunari. Usually his hands tended to roam freely over Midorima's body. Now, he had to concentrate all his caresses into this rectangular-shaped area that had been covered by board shorts. It was a good thing Shin-chan didn't wear speedos like Takao tended to (or that ridiculous thong the hawkeye had worn to the hotel swimming pool on their honeymoon just so he could get a rise out of Shin-chan) because then his hands would really be tied, so to speak.

They usually started this with some warm up kisses, but since Shin-chan's lips were off limits, Takao had to get down to business without much of a preamble which meant that Shin-chan wasn't ready for him yet. Normally, by the time he got to this part, there had been tongues in mouths and touching and stroking which ensured that Shin-chan was already in quite a state by the time Takao put his lips on him. This gave Takao the unexpected, but not unpleasant experience of having Shin-chan grow in his mouth until he couldn't fit all of him anymore.

Every once in a while Takao would forget and his hands would wander past the perimeter, outside the milky white safety zone of unblemished skin and Midorima would hiss at him, and not from pleasure.

Takao closed his eyes, relaxed his throat taking all of Midorima in, pressing his nose against damp, dark curls, the same color as Shin-chan's eyebrows, timing his breath in between thrusts.

By now Midorima had grown desperate, using Takao's hair as if it were handholds. Takao didn't mind in the least. He'd always liked it a little rough. He liked having his hair pulled. He loved having Shin-chan all breathy and frenzied and silently begging for release. And then Shin-chan went still under his touch.

Unlike certain green-haired spouses, Takao had no qualms about swallowing. He loved the taste of Shin-chan in his mouth. He didn't miss a drop. He never made a mess.

Having improved Shin-chan spirits considerably -- one could almost describe the tsundere as being in a good mood or at least thrumming with satisfaction, Takao's mouth turned its attention to more pressing matters: dinner.

Takao got up and adjusted his shorts. "You can make it up to me later," he told Shin-chan, who was so blissed out, he'd momentarily forgotten about his sunburn and was laying flat on his back on the bed.

###

When Takao and Midorima finally emerged from their bedroom, they were surprised to find that dinner was already on the table and it was lobster. Because Kazumi wasn't a wuss about boiling lobsters the way Takao was.

Yesterday's groceries didn't include any crustaceans, so Midorima deduced that she'd purchased them from a local fisherman, at least he _hoped_ she had purchased them. "You did pay for these," he asked pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

She rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law, as she popped a small morsel of lobster meat into Kichiro's open, waiting mouth. "Of course I paid for it. What? You thought I spent the afternoon poaching traps?"

Shintarō shrugged as he took a seat next to his daughter, kissing the top of her head. His body was still pumping him with endorphins, it made him less inclined to pick a fight with his sister-in-law.

Whether dinner was a peace offering or a tongue-in-cheek jab at the current state of Shin-chan's skin, Takao couldn't tell. But he already knew he was going to have to spend a good portion of this vacation on his knees.

###

"Takao." He shook the smaller man beside him.

"Takao, wake up."

"Hmmm." The man in question responded sleepily.

"How can you stand it?"

"...Wha--" Takao was barely conscious. He had the distinct feeling he'd woken up in the middle of a conversation.

"The sheets. How can you stand them?"

Takao would've rolled his eyes, except he was heavily invested in keeping them closed. He was still half asleep; maybe if he didn't respond and stayed very still, he could catch up to his dream.

"Takao?"

The hawkeye briefly opened his eyes, then closed them again and settled his head on his pillow into a more comfortable position.

Shin-chan peered over the former point guard's shoulder.

Defeatedly, Takao turned toward Midorima. "What do you want me to do, Shin-chan?" He said releasing a massive yawn. "It's. . .," he paused, craning his neck to look at the alarm clock blinking atop Shin-chan's nightstand, "2:30 in the morning."

"We have to do something about it. It's been two nights. I haven't slept it two nights! It feels even worse today. It's like sleeping in between two plies of sandpaper."

"That's just cause you're sunburn--"

"We'll buy proper sheets tomorrow," he said as if that settled the matter.

"Where? There's one store on this island and I'm pretty sure you won't find bedsheets between the rhubarb and the imported arugula."

"I could order them online," he huffed already reaching for the phone charging on his nightstand. "Have them delivered tomorrow."

Takao grabbed the taller man's phone before he could hit the search button on 'Egyptian cotton.'"

And what are you going to do with them afterwards? Huh? We don't even have a bed this size at home," he reminded him, his voice laced with both sleep and exasperation.

"Takao --"

"Go to sleep, Shin-chan," he said rolling over and pulling the covers back over his shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing that they both would do well to remember was that only one of them had a medical degree.

Not surprisingly, Takao was the last one to wake up the next morning. He'd been kept up all night again by Shin-chan and not in a good way. Not in the way he knew Shin-chan could deftly keep him up at night and into the early morning hours when Shin-chan didn't have hospital rounds to make the next day.

Being married to a doctor wasn't always as glamorous a life as people supposed it to be. Sure it meant Takao could afford to shop in Ginza till his arms popped off under the weight of his designer purchases. He _could_ follow in his mother-in-law's finely shodden footsteps (the woman had more shoes than there were days in a calendar year) and be greeted enthusiastically by name at every store that had a multinational presence and a doorman on its payroll. Takao was still as much a clotheshorse as he'd been in his early twenties and now he had a flush bank account to facilitate it. But he had neither the inclination nor the patience to whittle away the hours on such a frivolous endeavor.

It wasn't all glamorous. Being married to a doctor meant on most nights Takao was on a strict bedtime schedule. There was no staying up late to catch a movie on its release date or to try a new fusion restaurant with a waiting list a mile long. Any children who wailed from their respective baby monitors on the bedside table in the middle of the night with a heavy diaper or a monster under their bed were attended to and soothed exclusively by him and his libido had to settle for a quickie on most nights or be placed on hold in favor of Shin-chan getting his requisite eight hours of sleep.

Takao tried not to be resentful, really he did. And in fairness, Shin-chan did try to make it up to him on nights he wasn't on call or had to report to work the next day, even if those nights were few and far between. It was just the way things were. It wasn't like Shin-chan had a job where he could wing it. Murasakibara could afford to have a soufflé fall flat every once in a while. Akashi could fall asleep during a board meeting at his father's company and none of his lackey subordinates would dare breathe a word of it (hell, Akashi could probably tap dance naked on the boardroom table and no one would even think of telling the little emperor he hadn't any clothes). Even Kuroko could take a nap during recess, if Kagami had been home from the fire station and wore him out the night before.

But Shin-chan couldn't afford to be anything less than perfect every single time he donned his surgical scrubs and stepped into the operating theater. In some ways Shin-chan's fixation on preparedness, he obsession with perfection, hadn't changed much since the days they used to suit up in orange and white before stepping onto a wooden court. The stakes just got higher, that's all.

Shin-chan needed a full night's sleep. It wasn't optional. He needed his considerable mental faculties, his sharp synapses to be firing on all cylinders when he was on duty. It wasn't as if he'd never lost a patient, every doctor who'd practiced long enough had. And people who were in excellent health didn't usually require brain surgery. Takao had been there for Shintarō, had been his rock, for each loss. As with most things involving death, the first had been the hardest, but it never got easier. It was inevitable. Even under hands as capable as Shin-chan's there had been a few poor souls he couldn't save. After all, man merely proposes as Shin-chan often said.

Takao was all too cognizant of this. He knew it was a rare treat to have a week's worth of unencumbered Shin-chan, a Shin-chan free of professional obligations (though he was still checking in remotely on a few post-ops and had brought his tablet to revise the research paper he'd been working on with Dr. Yamaguchi and was slated to be submitted for peer-review early next year). Which was why every night they spent together, but not _together_ , on the island seemed like such a waste. Takao was going to have to remedy that. He was going to have to redirect Shin-chan's focus from fighting with Takao's sister to a more mutually enjoyable pastime. At the very least he needed to vary his means of improving Shin-chan's mood; it was murder on his knees.

Still in his "pajamas" -- an improvisation consisting of one of Shin-chan's old t-shirts and a pair of even older sweatpants, Takao moseyed out of the bedroom. If they'd been home, he wouldn't have bothered wearing anything at all to bed. At least not until Shin-chan woke up while it was still dark outside to go to work. Shin-chan, who wasn't known for being an especially emotionally expressive person, was always uncharacteristically affectionate when he bade Takao goodbye in the pre-dawn hours because he felt assured that Takao would be too dazed by his sleep induced stupor to remember any of it. Takao would then throw something on (a pair of shorts, an undershirt) before nestling back into the warm covers on Shin-chan's recently vacated side of the bed, because an hour or so later, Keiko-chan would wander into their bedroom with her bedhead and sleep rumpled night gown and crawl into their bed to "wake up" her papa and moments afterward, Kichi-chan would wail from the baby monitor atop Shin-chan's nightstand begging to be paroled out of his crib for the day. And that was how most of Takao's mornings started now and he loved every minute of it.

Takao made a beeline for the coffee pot in the kitchen. Bless his sister, she'd left some behind for him. He knew it couldn't have been his husband, the green-haired doctor only drank tea in the mornings, his shiruko addiction could wait until lunch time.

Shin-chan, having been classically trained in tea the way he'd been classically trained in piano, was of the firm and unwavering conviction that there was only one appropriate, state-sanctioned breakfast beverage: tea. And Shin-chan being Shin-chan, he had some very loud and opinionated ideas on what the proper method of preparing said beverage was -- ideas which included, but were not limited to, the correct water temperature, the only acceptable kinds of tea leaves (ryokucha, of course), the necessary implements (kept in their own special cupboard at home), and a ritual so exacting and steeped in ancient tradition it was worthy of anthropological study. Shin-chan who couldn't boil a packet of ramen to stave off starvation, knew how to make a sublime cup of tea.

On the other end of the spectrum was Takao Kazunari (and really, most every other practical person in the country). As far as Takao was concerned, making tea required a mug and microwave, or if you _really_ wanted to be fancy, a kettle. This was why Takao never bothered with brewing tea for Shin-chan (the persnickety former shooting guard had impossible standards; the prime minister himself probably drank shoddier tea than Shin-chan did) and precisely why Takao drank coffee (he didn't have the patience to wait through the fastidiousness of a Shin-chan brewed pot of tea). 

Kazunari didn't even care that his coffee had evidently been brewed a while ago and was at room temperature now. He was just grateful he didn't have to wait for his jolt of java and much needed caffeine fix.

Mug in hand, he strolled into the living room following the familiar sound of his son practicing his new favorite word (one he'd undoubtedly learned from his big sister), punctuated by the now commonplace squeaks of a certain toy mouse.

Takao caught sight of his tall husband first. As if his considerable height weren't enough to get him noticed, Shin-chan seemed to have a gravitational pull on Takao's steely-blue gaze. It was the reason Takao was so often mercilessly teased by their friends when he got caught staring at his gorgeous husband like a besotted school girl.

The tsundere was much less lobster-y this morning, Takao noted, though the tan lines were still pronounced, like boundary lines on a map. Takao could tell it wasn't going to turn into a sun-kissed golden tan, the way his own skin did when he was outside too long, the way it was already starting to turn into a honey glow now that they'd been at the beach a few days.

Shin-chan's skin was going to molt like feathers on a buzzard, Takao was certain, and he was going to be just as pleasant to be around. He was going to complain about it vociferously until he went back to his normal, almost transparent, night-of-the-living-dead hue that Takao found so otherworldly, so ethereal. 

"You have to wear these."

"No."

"It's for your own safety."

"No."

"You don't even know how to swim yet."

"No."

You're being unreasonable."

"No."

Takao allowed this helpful discourse between father and son to go on a little bit longer than strictly necessary before interceding, because he found Shin-chan's attempts to negotiate with his children so endearing.

"I see he found his mouse," Takao said to Shin-chan as he rested his mug on the nearby coffee table and waded into the fray. Kichiro clenched his tiny fist tighter around the small squeeze toy, which emitted a squeak of protest, as if responding to the comment.

Takao grabbed the bright orange floatie from Shin-chan's hand and sat on the armchair where Kichiro's back was resting against the seat cushion. The tiny tot had quieted down, observing his papa with rapt attention, his little pot belly sticking out in a way that was only ever adorable on babies of which he was one.

Shin-chan sighed. It was a long suffering sigh, one Takao was intimately familiar with. "He caught sight of it on the kitchen counter when I was making his bottle this morning," he explained, lamenting the reunion between his son and his new favorite and thoroughly inappropriate chew toy. 

Shin-chan, like Takao, had acquired astonishing new skills since becoming a father. One of them was preparing a bottle of baby formula, one-handed because their son sometimes liked to be picked up and cuddled in the mornings and neither party involved wanted to miss out on that over something as prosaic as making a bottle. 

When Kichiro was a very small baby, Shin-chan was determined to feed him breast milk because all the parenting books insisted it was the best sustenance for young children, bar none. It was Takao's unsolicited opinion that Shin-chan put too much stock in books and in the opinions of so-called experts, but Shin-chan didn't ask him for advice. Shin-chan had even procured the services a reputable company that would deliver such perishable products to their doorstep. It was meant for special cases, newborns and infants who were allergic to formula and didn't otherwise have access to their own mother's milk, for one reason or other. It wasn't meant for their situation, but there were no lengths Shin-chan wouldn't go to for his children. In the end, it was for naught because Kichiro would have none of it. He'd been formula fed for too long at the orphanage and after a brief standoff (lasting exactly one mealtime) wherein Kichiro for the first (and last) time in his short life refused to eat, Shin-chan had no choice but to concede the issue. The standoff ended quickly, but the whole experience had unfortunately undermined Shin-chan's confidence.

"Kichi-chan." Takao said as he inflated one floatie and handed it off to the toddler in question to hold while he puffed up the other one. "Do you want to go in the water today?"

Said toddler just stared at him through thick, dark lashes. While he'd mastered the word "no," he hadn't quite gotten around to learning its counterpart. Kazunari interpreted his silence as an emphatic "yes."

"Okay. Well, if you want to go in the water today, you've got to wear these," he said as he wiped some dribble off his toddler's chin and dried it off on the leg of his own board shorts. Kichi-chan was a copious drooler.

Kichiro stared at his father with large, pensive eyes, like he was trying to assess the truthfulness of that statement which made Takao laugh.

"They'll keep you safe. Okay?" This wasn't true at all. It wasn't like either he or Shin-chan would ever entrust their children's safety to two strips of cheap, orange plastic, especially not in the ocean -- either himself, Shin-chan, or his sister would be carrying the children at all time in the water -- but they wanted to instill in them good safety practices and wearing floaties while inside a body of water seemed like a good thing to do, at least until they could schedule some swimming lessons.  

When they had finally agreed to start a family, it had been a given that Kazunari would be the primary caregiver. Midorima was much too successful in his career and was the main breadwinner by a lot. Consequently, not much changed in Shin-chan's _professional_ life that fateful September morning when they became fathers.

His home life may have turned topsy-turvy and hadn't been the same since, but as far as work was concerned, Shin-chan still clocked-in before the sun rose and made it home by supper time each workday. He'd already cut back on his workaholic tendencies for Kazunari's benefit years before and there wasn't any room for further cutbacks in his hours. Which meant that the weekends he was on call or had to cover for a sick colleague were filled with silently consuming guilt over not spending time with his family, but there wasn't much else he could do about it.

They had quickly decided against other options, the most obvious for people with their economic circumstances being a live-in nanny. Shintarō and Shuzuko had each had an army of nannies (their considerable age difference and their mother's jealousy over their father's indiscretions had ensured a constant turnover with only the plumpest, most matronly ones managing to keep their jobs) and it wasn't the way either he or Takao wanted to raise their children.

Takao's mother worked outside the home and so he and Kazumi had gone to daycare from an early age. It had been a matter of financial necessity rather than convenience for the Takao clan. Kazumi had been an unintended consequence, proof that breastfeeding was not a reliable form of birth control. The fact that Takao knew this was also proof that there was no such thing as secrets in his parents' household. Everyone knew everything about each other. His parents (his mother especially) were simply unacquainted with the concept of TMI.

Of course, it wasn't always a bad thing. Few things filled Takao with more mischievous glee, than seeing Shin-chan's ears turn a mortifying shade of magenta whenever Takao's mother took Shin-chan aside and confided in her son-in-law. Shin-chan's profession only encouraged her oversharing tendencies. Like adding kindle to a fire, it made her all the more inclined to consult her son-in-law,  _the doctor_ (never mind that he was a brain surgeon and ill-equipped -- and even more ill-at-ease -- to discuss "the change" that was now upon her).

It was no secret. Everyone knew Kazumi had followed too closely on the heels of Takao's birth, overwhelming the young family's resources and causing their mother to join the workforce when she had planned to stay home and take care of her infant son. Not that Kazumi was ever made to feel bad about it. Takao's parents were the nicest, most welcoming people he knew.

Exposure to so many children of similar age had caused the Takao siblings to develop exceptional immune systems and contributed to them becoming the outgoing, excessively socialized adults they were today. It had worked out well for Kazunari and his sister. But daycare hadn't been their mother's first choice.

Shintarō and Kazunari had a choice. In fact, they were brimming with options. It just so happened that Takao did not need to work. _Not really_. Not anymore, not since Shin-chan finished his residency years ago. Even when he was working full time, Takao's salary was a pittance in comparison to that of a surgeon's at a world renowned research hospital. The reason Takao kept his job after that was because he loved it and because he'd always been stubbornly independent. There was something else too.

Aomine had made a comment once, the night of Shintarō's graduation from medical school. Over dinner and drinks, he'd said that Takao could retire now and enjoy life as a kept man, like Shin-chan had been his meal ticket, like Shin-chan was a giant pain-in-the-ass and Takao had been putting up with him all those years waiting for his investment to finally pay off.

It was a joke. Aomine had been drunk, loud and brash. He'd meant nothing by it. Hell, he probably wouldn't even remember saying it. Takao knew that. He had even laughed about it along with the others, pointing out that until he finished his residency, Shin-chan would still be working for peanuts. Aomine was his friend; he was often thoughtless, but never malicious. And so Takao knew Tōō's former ace wasn't taking a jab or even remotely suggesting that he was with Shin-chan for his money. Even so, the comment stayed with Takao all those years later.

Takao had been working at the small startup publication since college and during that time he'd seen a lot of colleagues come and go. It was hard to keep people with Kazunari's level of experience on the payroll. While the job was a lot of fun, it didn't pay well and most people left it for more lucrative pastures after a few years.

It wasn't a matter of corporate greed, but a matter of being a small company in a cutthroat industry. Anyone interested in getting married or starting a family knew it was only a matter of time before they had to find something else. Takao was in the unique and enviable position of not needing a raise and in fact could afford to take the substantial pay cut that expectedly came with a significant reduction in his work hours.

When it became clear that fatherhood would become a reality and not just wishful thinking (there weren't a whole lot of adoption agencies that were willing to even consider working with a same sex couple), it fell upon Takao's shoulders to rearrange his professional life to make room for their children. In the end, making the transition had been easier than expected. Takao's editor didn't want to lose him and what he couldn't give him in compensation, he gave him in flexibility. He agreed to allow Takao to work from home and set his own hours. As long as he met his deadlines, Takao got to decide when he'd write up his columns.

These days, Takao did most of his writing in the evenings after he put the children and then Shin-chan to bed (in that order). The penthouse was quiet and peaceful then and he could sit for hours, uninterrupted at his desk, in his home office with only the illuminated cityscape peering in from his floor-to-ceiling window and the whitish glow on the screen of his laptop for light. His view had certainly improved from the days the tiny window in his closet-sized cubicle overlooked a public parking lot sandwiched between printing factories.

He'd remote in for staff meetings, but only if they coincided with nap time. And on rare occasions he'd drop by the office, if he could get a sitter (usually his sister-in-law for whom being an undergraduate at uni meant her classes were haphazardly scattered throughout the week and left her with large swaths of time in her schedule during the day to play with her niece and nephew).

Takao wouldn't trade his life for anyone else's. But there were times he missed the hustle and bustle of working in an office, the sheer novelty of having another adult to converse with. When he'd worked downtown, he'd usually pop into a bar or noodle shop for a drink with his coworkers on his way home. After all, he always got home before Shin-chan did. But they stopped inviting him, Takao's new workspace was in a classy part of town (a long way from his old office in the newsprint district) and he'd turned the guys down too many times.  

"Papa!" Kichi-chan exclaimed, rousing his father out of his uncharacteristic navel grazing.

"Yes. That's right," Takao affirmed. "I'm Papa and that's Daddy," he said, gesturing towards Shin-chan who was quietly observing the exchange.

"Papa!" Kichiro exclaimed again.

"Yup. That's me. You think you can hold your hands out like this for me, bud?" He showed him by extending his own arms. "Please," he added because they were teaching their children manners, even though one of the children's fathers apparently had no use for them.

Kichiro did as he was told and Takao beamed with pride. "You're so helpful," he praised as he threaded each of Kichiro's outstretched arms through the plastic floaties.

"Thank you." He said to his tot when he was done and Kichiro beamed at him again.

And then he turned to his husband who seemed a little awestruck, liked Takao had captured a dragon or tamed a hungry lion or something. "It's not magic, Shin-chan. It's just practice," he said.

Midorima eyed his husband for a moment before saying quietly, "Yes. I suppose you're right."

Shin-chan didn't sound so sure of himself, but he tried to put on a brave front.

And then Takao grinned evilly with a mischievous glint in his eye, "Now you get to try putting them on Keiko-chan."

###

The ocean was calm, but the children were not. For all the trouble Shin-chan had gone through with the floaties, in truth, they'd lasted less than twenty minutes in the water. Kichiro, like his father, had had a bad night of sleep, if the bags under Aunt Kazumi's eyes were any indication. Of course, they could've also been indicative of her mourning her good-for-nothing boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend -- Takao wasn't sure what his sister's relationship status was. In any case, if Takao had learned anything in the past eleven months, it was that a tired baby was a cranky baby.

Keiko-chan, not wanting to be upstaged by her unruly little brother and all the adult attention he was garnering, also began acting up.

In the end Kazumi volunteered to take the misbehaving children back to the bungalow for a change of venue, a bath, and hopefully a nap -- although Takao suspected her offer had more to do with her desire not to leave her cellphone unattended lest she miss a very important phone call. He sincerely hoped that wasn't the case. He hoped his sister would rip this guy off cleanly and discard him like a used band-aid, but realistically he knew she had a knack for bad decision-making and a penchant for learning things the hard way. It was a family trait, really.

Takao and Shin-chan remained in the water for a little while longer until Shin-chan expressed concern (complained vociferously) about exacerbating his already sunburnt skin. Takao doubted any sun ray would be strong enough to breach the layers upon layers of sunscreen Shin-chan had plastered on this morning to compensate for the other day.

Takao waded in the water for a short time, trying to forestall the inevitable, trying to draw out this time alone together -- his moment in the sun, so to speak. He was feeling pretty good now. The caffeine he'd ingested had finally kicked in, the gentle waves were licking his skin like attentive puppies, swaying him back and forth into a contented lull like the rocking chair in Kichiro's nursery, and unlike Shin-chan, he liked the feel of the sun warming him up. It was blissfully quiet save for a few gulls overhead and Shin-chan's grumblings (which Takao found as constant and reassuring as sunlight itself). He didn't want to move from this spot, but in the end -- as with all things Shin-chan -- Takao acquiesced. But not without a bit of teasing first.

As they made their way to the shore, Takao stepped on what he could only describe as a hot poker. The pain was intense and instantaneous and the scream he let out could have curdled blood or woken the dead or inspired any number of similar clichés.

Midorima's arms were around him before he could even register that he was being carried out of the water and unceremoniously dropped onto the sandy shore just beyond the tideline. Instinctively, Shin-chan reached for the hawkeye's foot, closely inspecting the underside of it.

If it weren't for the thought distracting pain, Takao would've felt like a bug under a microscope given the intensity with which Shin-chan was studying his foot. He was on the receiving end of a Dr. Shin-chan examination and given the deepening frown on Shin-chan's face, the prognosis for the patient didn't look good.

"What is it? Did I get bit? It was a shark wasn't it? I knew it." He said through gritted teeth, rolling his head on the sand from side to side in agony.

Red, whip like lash marks marred Kazunari's arch and part of his heel, Shin-chan informed him. Takao didn't need to see it, he could feel it and it hurt like hell. It felt like his whole foot was on fire.

"Jellyfish." Midorima informed him. He sounded almost relieved. Undoubtedly he, like Takao, had been worried it was much, much worse. While it clearly hurt, at least it wasn't life threatening or a cut that could get infected, cause complications down the line.

Midorima's fears having been assuaged, he proceeded to drop Kazunari's foot on the ground with the same care one would use to throw an anchor over the side of a boat and concentrated on getting his own panting breaths back under control.

"Ouch, Shin-can. You could've warned me you were letting go. It hurts a lot you know."

"You'll live," he told him. Now that he had assured himself it was nothing perilous, Shin-chan could afford to go back to his normal, detached facade. Midorima adjusted his sunglasses and crouched to pick Kazunari up again.

"I'll carry you home and then I'll do an internet search on how to treat it," he informed him.

"That's easy." Takao waved his hand dismissively. "Just piss on it." 

Midorima dropped Takao on the sand again with no more care than the first time, looking positively scandalized, rose-colored ears burning with blooming embarrassment.

" _Wh -- at_?!" Midorima squawked.

"You know. Take a leak." Takao gestured vulgarly.

Shintarō could be forgiven for his wide-eyed, horrified disbelief. In fact, it was an entirely reasonable reaction given his history with Kazunari. Takao didn't always have the best ideas and more often than Midorima would care to admit aloud, they ended in abject mortification for the green-haired doctor.

 _Relax, Shin-chan. Ōtsubo just left. We've got the showers all to ourselves_ , said moments before the then-team captain returned to the locker room to retrieve a set of forgotten house keys. Or the infamous, _You're being paranoid. Nobody checks the janitor's closet,_ delivered seconds before Midorima realized Takao knew nothing of hospital cleaning schedules. And of course, more recently, who could forget his great-aunt's wake, dutifully attended by all of his living relatives and one dead one. He'd never liked the old bat, but if there were such things as specters he was overdue for a retaliatory haunting. You'd think Takao had a penchant for being caught with his pants down, except each time it had been Midorima who'd been in that compromising position.

"Come on, Shin-chan. Just do it." Midorima had heard _that_ phrase before too and was unwilling to stymie an eye roll.

"What's the worst that can happen?" Takao asked as visions of a public trial on obscenity charges filled Midorima's beleaguered head. He was a well-known surgeon now, maybe the Tokyo press would cover it.

Shintarō could feel the pin-pricks of what was surely going to be a wicked headache starting to form (like dark, rolling clouds gathering before a thunderstorm) as he tried to reason with his insane spouse. "I'm not sure the acidic qualities of -- "

"It's common knowledge."

"Not to _me_ ," he said lifting a horrified eyebrow as he massaged the bridge of his nose.

"None of the medical literature I've ever read said anything about --"

"That's because it's a home remedy," Takao interrupted again, the constant sting of his foot making him impatient and in a rush to get on with it.

"Urine . . .  is a home remedy?" Shintarō asked dubiously.

"Ugh! Hurry up! What are you waiting for? It really hurts, Shin-chan. Just do it already."

"What if I don't have to go?" He crossed his arms stubbornly, causing Takao to huff in exasperation.

" _Fine_. I'll do it myself, just help me up," he said as he reached for the strings of his own board shorts.

Midorima grabbed Takao's hands to stop him. "Have you lost your mind? We're out in public," he said through gritted teeth, convinced they were both going to end up arrested for public indecency.

"I'm begging you, Shin-chan. My foot really hurts," Takao said in a whining plea. His face scrunched up in pain and looking like he was about to cry.

Broad, sunburnt shoulders sagged in defeat. "Fine. I'll do it," he said punctuating the statement with a long suffering sigh as if to say, _the things I do for you, Kazunari_. Resignedly, he assumed position. He stood over Takao, looked both ways to make sure no one was coming, and proceeded to do as he'd been asked.

"Not a word," he said warningly as he tucked himself back in and Takao wisely swallowed the suggestive quip he was going to make about this untoward little activity.

Instead his sputtered, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "You know, Shin-chan, your aim could be better."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he barked, sounding not sorry at all. "I'm not used to doing this downwind."

And then, because he really did care about Kazunari he said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did it work? Are you feeling better?"

"No. Actually it feels worse," Takao winced.

"Idiot," Midorima said as he gingerly picked him back up again, mindful of the source of Takao's wet foot and trying not to get any of it on himself as he walked back towards the house.

And then, because he just couldn't hold it in any longer, Takao teased him. "I didn't know Shin-chan was such a pervert," he laughed.

Midorima didn't even break stride. "You know, I could just drop you here like a sack of daikons and you'd have to _crawl_ your way back to the bungalow," he causally reminded him.

Takao knew better than to tempt his husband. Despite the circumstances, he tried to enjoy the rare treat of being carried in Shin-chan's arms even as his foot throbbed all the way back to the beach house.

Midorima deposited Takao on the couch and allowed the rest of the temporary occupants of the bungalow to fuss over him while he retrieved his phone from the nightstand to consult with a colleague about a proper course of treatment.

But not before warning Keiko-chan not to touch Papa's foot when the toddler went straight for the blistering heel.

"Papa has a boo boo, so we mustn't touch it," Kazumi piped in, unaware of the real reason Midorima didn't want the children touching Takao's foot.

It turned out Takao's "home remedy" was the opposite of what the experts recommended doing. Midorima wasn't the least bit surprised at that. In the end, the answer was simple. It had been in front of them all along, miles and miles of it.

He grabbed Keiko-chan's pink beach pail and headed back out to the shore for some seawater to rinse Takao's foot.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't mean he's 'warm' personality-wise."

Takao and Kazumi were sitting together in a darkened living room hours after everyone else had gone to bed.

It was now cold in the living room of the bungalow, their chilled drinks the likely culprit, and they were sharing the afghan one of them had borrowed off the back of the couch, whispering conspiratorially and giggling like a couple of schoolgirls at a slumber party.

They spoke in hushed tones so as not to wake the children or one ornery doctor.

"What about your cute friend? The blonde one. Is he seeing anyone?"

His sister was being coy because of course they both knew she knew Kise's name. Kazumi had even had his poster taped to her bedroom wall when she was in middle school.

She had flirted shamelessly with him at her brother's wedding and hadn't been deterred in the slightest when that leggy Amazonian lingerie model he'd brought as a date started staring daggers at her for the remainder of the night.

"You wanna date Kise?" Takao asked incredulous before dissolving into a fit of poorly concealed laughter, his arms hugging his torso as if he would split at the seams, his injured foot resting on a cushion on the coffee table in front of them.

She clapped her hand over his mouth, ostensibly because she didn't want him to wake everyone up, but more so because she didn't want her big brother laughing at her. Especially not now when her ego was so badly bruised.

When that didn't work, she punched him in the arm looking very much like she was about to cry.

Kazumi, who'd had a very recent blow to her self-esteem was feeling much too tender, too thin-skinned, for her brother's usual teasing. She didn't want to hear that her big brother didn't think she was pretty enough or interesting enough to garner the attentions of the great Kise Ryōta.

She wasn't stupid. She knew Kise was a serial dater and as far as she knew he had never once been tied down to a steady girlfriend, no matter how hard the glossy tabloid magazines who still followed him around tried to pin one on him and to the relief of his legion of female fans. But she wasn't looking for long term commitment now. She wasn't looking to be the first woman to conquer the heart of one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. She'd settle for a good night's fuck. Of course, she couldn't exactly tell her big brother that.

"I'm sorry," Takao said in between breaths. "It's not you. It's just that --"

He hesitated for a moment because Kise was his friend. Shin-chan would always be his best friend, but Kise and Kuroko were his next closest friends. And while Kuroko's life was an open book (sometimes too open and prone to over-sharing), Kise was a very private man when it came to his personal life -- the endless string of beauties, models and starlets he publicly dated, notwithstanding.

Takao decided he wouldn't really be breaching Kise's trust, because it wasn't something Kise had ever confided in him. It was just something Kazunari had deduced. Something he had observed, picked up on his own because he had very sharp eyes. In fact, he wondered whether Kise even knew it himself. Takao couldn't blame the guy. There were certain pressures, certain built-in expectations that came with being a former teen idol. He probably didn't want to disappoint his fans.  _Oh what the hell_ , he owed his sister an explanation.

"It's just . . . You sure know how to pick 'em," he said as the last tremors of laughter were making their way out of his body.

"What?"

"I mean Kise is so far up in the closet that even Murasakibara would need a stepladder to get him out of there."

" _No._ " She covered her mouth with her hands in response to her brother's bombshell revelation. Steel-blue eyes identical to his own stared at him in disbelief, as if he'd just told her the last emperor of China had been a macaque.

"Yes."

"Oh, Kazu," she said miserably, her breath stilted like she was carrying the weight of the world on her slender shoulders. "What's wrong with me?"

On any other day Takao would've had a laundry list, a litany of things he could rattle off the top of his head in response to that question. But right now, he couldn't find any faults in his sister, not when she was like this. "Absolutely nothing. You're perfect," he hiccupped.

Takao wasn't sure how long they'd been on the couch, but he knew exactly how much they'd had to drink. Well, at least their combined sum total. It was easy to count the discarded, empty glass carcasses of beer, shochu, and sake on the floor beneath them, but he hadn't the foggiest idea who had drunk more.

He took a swig from his wineglass (he'd been unable to find any flutes in the cupboards, but concern over appropriate stemware was really more Shin-chan's area) before reaching over to top hers off and pour himself another glass feeling strangely accomplished that they'd finished another bottle between them. They had already polished off the spirits Kazumi had secretly purchased at the little market and were drinking the last remnants of what Shin-chan had placed in the shopping cart. In a few minutes, he'd get up and rummage through the cupboards and the fridge and see what other alcoholic beverages (numbing agents for her broken heart and his throbbing foot) were still in stock. But for now he was comfortable staying put.

"I want what you have," she confided in him after a few moments of companionable silence. "And I don't even mean the fancy car and the even fancier penthouse apartment -- although those are nice too. _Hell_ , Kazu I could live comfortably in just your closet space," she said, gesturing with her wineglass.

Takao sputtered at the ridiculousness of her comment about living in closets after what he'd just told her about Kise.

Ignoring her brother's childish buffoonery, she went on, "I want kids and a husband who adores me the way Shintarō adores you."

Takao's breath caught in his throat. He knew that what he had with Shin-chan was special, amazing, and incredibly precious. But he didn't think anyone outside the two of them knew it too.

He was used to the good-natured ribbing he got from their mutual friends about Takao being an angel, a saint, a masochist, an idiot, and/or a martyr for willingly tying his lot in life to someone as purportedly disagreeable as Midorima Shintarō.

Takao laughed. He didn't really know what to say to his sister. Every response he could think of sounded false or rang hollow: _Don't worry you'll find your man too. It's not always perfect, sometimes we fight over stupid stuff. Things will work out for you too. Just give it time and everything will be okay._

He wanted to keep things light. He didn't want to depress her even further by admitting that _yes_ , he'd found his soul mate, he was over-the-moon in love with this man and he couldn't possibly be happy with anyone else, so he turned it into a joke, a throwaway comment.

"Cuddling up to a strong, warm, devastatingly handsome doctor does have its appeal." He sighed dreamily for dramatic effect only to be met with grayish-blue eyed skepticism for the second time that night, before they both burst into laughter.

They quieted down so as not to raise the suspicions of the subject matter of their idle gossip, or tried to anyway.

"What? I meant 'warm' as in temperature," he explained, not missing a beat. "I don't mean he's 'warm' personality-wise. Of course not," he snickered. "Heaven forbid," he said as they both dissolved into a fit of tipsy giggles at the absurdity of anyone describing Midorima as "warm."

Wiping tears of laughter from her eyes after she'd recovered a bit, Kazumi smiled hazily, "He _is_ devastatingly handsome, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Takao dragged the word out, sounding every bit as besotted as he'd been all those years ago when they had played together on Shūtoku's basketball team.

Aside from the bottle of very expensive champagne (Shin-chan's, of course) they'd just now polished off between the both of them, the whole scene reminded him of being a lovesick teenager. Back when he used to stay up late in his room on school nights with his sister discussing the enigma that had been his high school crush and on-the-court partner instead of doing his math homework, all those years ago when he and his sister liked the same boy.

Except now he didn't have to guess at whether Midorima Shintarō liked him back, Shin-chan had _married_ him. Maybe it was the alcohol's influence, but the thought itself made a pleased Takao sprout goose bumps.

"I want someone to look at me the way Shintarō looks at you," she confessed, pulling her share of the afghan more securely over her left shoulder.

"And how's that?" Takao asked feeling the room spinning a little bit, but still pleasantly buzzed.

"Like you're the sun and the moon and the stars. Like you're his whole universe and he'd be lost without you."

Takao chuckled because it was true -- he just didn't think anyone else noticed it -- and because Shin-chan would die of mortification if he thought people knew. His Shin-chan went to great pains to hide stuff like that.

"And yet, everyone we know thinks I'm the hopelessly romantic, the sentimental sap in our marriage," he mused.

Kazumi shook her head as if to say, _people are idiots_ , but then thought better of it and tried to still her head and the spinning room around her. She was feeling dizzy now.

"Hey. Give me your phone," he said.

"What for?" She asked even as she unplugged it from the wall charger and handed it to him.

The screen illuminated his face as he scrolling down until he found what he was searching for then forward the information onto his own phone.

The fact that she'd kept the battery full since they got here was not lost on Kazunari. The fact that it hadn't rung or so much as chirped to indicate a text message or missed voicemail, broke his heart.

Not because he particularly cared about the shithead she'd been dating, but because his sister was special and she deserved to be with someone who instantly recognized that and cherished her for it.

It was too bad Kise swung exclusively the other way because he was just the type of sweet guy who would treat the person he was dating right. It was part of the reason he was such a stalker magnet. But the last thing his sister needed was to date another adult male who still didn't understand his own sexual preferences.

He made a note to go through his impressively long list of contacts when he got home (Takao was nothing if not social) and find someone suitable to introduce to Kazumi. He wasn't in the habit of setting up his baby sister with friends or acquaintances, but she'd done a bang up job on her own and clearly could use his help. He needed someone nice and considerate -- this narrowed the pool of potential candidates considerably and eliminated all of his Shūtoku teammates, but he had heard Kiyoshi was single.

As for his friend Ryōta, maybe it was time Takao intervened and helped him figure things out a bit too, maybe he'd arrange a pickup game (so to speak) of basketball and invite Kasamatsu.

"There," he said as he handed the mobile back to his sister. He didn't delete the number though he was sorely tempted, that decision was entirely Kazumi's.

"Now, you don't have to deal with that creep yourself," He explained. "I'll text him about getting your stuff back when we get home."

She smiled sadly at him, her eyes watery with fond emotion. "Thanks, Kazu." She leaned forward wobbly to give him a hug.

"Don't mention it. That's what big brothers are for," he whispered into her ear.

###

The lamp that sat on the nightstand next to Midorima's side of the bed was still lit when Takao stumbled loudly into the room and shut the door behind him. He was walking on his injured foot like he didn't have a care in the world, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he made his way towards the bed in what could only be described as a poor attempt at looking suave. He'd feel the effects of walking on that foot tomorrow, just as soon as the alcohol wore off.

Shin-chan ignored him. He was in bed, beneath the covers with a tablet in hand making revisions to the paper he was working on for a medical journal.

Takao grinned like a happy idiot as he clambered onto the bed, crawling up towards Midorima on all fours like an inebriated, graceless jungle cat. One hoity sniff later and it was clear to the doctor that his other half was three sheets to the wind.

Midorima continued to ignore him, or he tried to anyway, pulling the tablet higher up to obscure his own face. Maybe if he couldn't see him, he'd go away. 

Undeterred, Takao glomped onto the taller man who oomphed in surprise, trapping the tablet and Midorima's long fingers between them, and knocking the nightcap off his head.

They were at eye level now as Takao smiled hungrily, clearly pleased with himself perched astride on a long, muscular thigh. Talking to Kazumi on the couch had made the hawkeye want to cuddle up to his Shin-chan. He was feeling amorous and was determined to show Shin-chan just how much he loved him.

"Takao --" Midorima started to say, only to be blindsided by the sudden onslaught of unwanted affection.

Kazunari's first attempt at kissing his tsundere missed his mouth completely. He'd aimed for Midorima's frowning lips, but had planted one on his chin instead. Maybe Shin-chan had moved.

" _How mean_ ," Takao whined sounding very much like Kise.

Midorima quickly put the tablet away on the nightstand lest it become a casualty of Takao's clumsy attempts at seduction. 

"Takao --"

"Shin-chan's so hot." The next one landed on target and Takao wasted no time pushing his tongue into Midorima's protesting mouth, taking advantage of the fact that the taller man was trying to speak. Shintarō fought the urge to bite the other man's wayward tongue in retribution. "He makes me want to do filthy things to him."

"Tak-OW!!" Midorima yipped when the smaller man bit him on the neck, hard. Midorima hoped in vain he didn't leave a mark as he pushed him off.

He'd done it none too gently and in the hawkeye's inebriated state, he'd almost fallen off the bed. But Takao liked it rough and took it as an invitation. It seemed like Shin-chan was playing hard to get to Takao's woozy head.

"You're drunk." He managed to state the obvious before Takao plunked another long, drawn out kiss on his lips.

"And you're sexy," he said breathily. Midorima Shintarō most definitely did not moan in response to _that_ and if he just happened to be panting it was only because he'd just come up for air after that searing kiss.

He was only an amateur sommelier, dabbling in wines for recreational fun, but the familiar taste in Takao's mouth was hard to miss. Even he could recognize the unmistakable bouquet of this particular late vintage. Takao tasted like champagne. _Very_ _expensive_ champagne. Midorima's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Did you open my bottle of Dom Péri -- _ahhh_."

Takao's hands had found their way into Midorima's pajama pants and were making themselves quite at home there.

"I'm so hard for you, Shin-chan." Takao stated the obvious and Shintarō swallowed thickly because Takao saying filthy things to him was one of his favorite things in the world. "I could come in my pants right now just looking at you."

Shintarō exhaled shakily because apparently he still needed to do pedestrian things like breathing at a time like this. "You're not ww--wearing any," he pointed out helpfully. Shintarō was much too practical to be any good at the art of bedroom banter the way Takao was. Takao spoke it masterfully, the way some people spoke a second language.

Takao looked down between them as if he needed to verify the truth of Shintarō's statement and quickly amended, "I could come on _your_ pants." He suggested, whispering it seductively in Midorima's ear.

Shintarō must've been wired differently because despite his growing interest in this titillating topic of conversation all he could think of is he didn't have another pair of pajama bottoms. "Please don't."

To add to the urgency of the situation, Shintarō could tell Takao was not going to last much longer. Not with the way he was rutting against Midorima's thigh at precisely that speed and with that amount of pressure. Takao was going to lose it any moment now and as much as Midorima _hated_ these sheets -- would gladly set the offending fabric on fire -- the fact remained that they didn't have a replacement set.

Takao had been right about the grocery store not carrying the item, Midorima had checked and he'd been forbidden by his spouse from ordering any online. There was no way around it, they were stuck with this set and Takao was already biting his lower lip giving Midorima that familiar look that said his head was filled with filthy thoughts he was seconds away from enacting.

Midorima was only human and he clearly wasn't immune to Takao's ministrations, however inelegant they might've been at that moment. He couldn't help it, he was turned on. As much as Takao's heavy handed attempts at drunken seduction were annoying him (and as pissed as he was about his wasted champagne), they were also having their intended effect. Wasted or sober, Takao was hot. It was beyond dispute, Takao could turn on the charm and at the moment, Midorima found Takao irresistible. The hawkeye oozed sex appeal and Midorima's body was definitely responding to it.

At home they had a drawer for just this sort of thing. It was the top drawer of the nightstand on Shintarō's side of the bed. It was strategically placed so that Midorima could reach in with one hand and it was close enough that it didn't interrupt the flow of things.

Lube was indispensable, but they hardly ever used condoms anymore. They both had a clean bill of health and they had been in a committed, exclusively monogamous relationship for nearly sixteen years. But they would both need them now, because whatever Takao's feverish intentions were at the moment, neither one of them could afford to make a mess out of the bed they'd be sleeping in for the rest of the week. Thankfully the rented bungalow had come with extra towels which he could position under Takao.

He pushed the man who'd been straddling his left thigh off of him and onto the bed, breaking Takao's pace --- effectively breaking the spell -- and causing the smaller man to complain loudly. By way of consolation, as a means of saying it wasn't over, he'd be right back, Shintarō brushed a kiss against Takao's bare stomach as he left the bed.

He got up to fish the lube and the box of condoms he'd purchased at the island's lone grocery store earlier that week. A heteronormative brand that was ribbed for "her" pleasure. The limited selection at the small grocery store left much to be desired, at least when it came to prophylactics. There was apparently enough shelving space to stock seven different types of imported mustard, Shintarō had noted.

He had slipped the supplies into his drop kit when they'd returned to the bungalow and had no trouble finding them in his suitcase. He'd wasted no time, but when he turned back towards the bed he found Takao lightly snoring. He'd fallen asleep on top of the duvet where moments before Shintarō had left him, stark naked and already drooling on Shintarō's pillow.

Midorima let out a long suffering sigh. It figured that Takao would rile him up only to fall asleep before the main event, leaving Shintarō high and dry with a very prominent tent pitched in his pajama pants.

"Tease," he muttered fondly as he tucked him in. He placed a gentle kiss atop a suntanned shoulder and pulled the covers over his partner, before turning off the lamp and falling asleep. 


	8. Chapter 8

Takao woke up to a splitting headache. It felt like someone had taken a hammer to his head, then repeated the motion on an endless loop. And to make matters worse, he could've sworn that that malevolent person had also set his foot on fire. Because that's exactly what the back of his heel felt like, like it was kindling to his own funeral pyre. 

His tongue felt heavy and sandpaper rough and parched -- liked he'd spent last night guzzling the very sand that was just beyond the steps of their rented back porch by the pail load instead of downing Shin-chan's pricey champagne. And his breath. _Oh heavens his breath_. He'd either been munching on a three-day old corpse that had been left out in the hot sun to fester or some small woodland creature had done him the disservice of crawling up into his yap and promptly dying in there, because it certainly smelled like death in that dank, dark cavity he called a mouth. At the moment, monitor lizards had less offensive exhales.

He was alone, stark naked, and absolutely wrecked. He must've kicked his blanket off in his sleep sometime during the night as it lay a crumpled heap just to the left of his enflamed foot. The thought of reaching down to pull the fabric back up over himself was too ludicrous to even entertain in his pounding head. Takao was certain the effort alone would kill him. Just opening his eyes was painful. _When the hell had it gotten so bright in there?_

He was in the throes of what was quite possibly the worst hangover of his life. Though to be fair, every hangover felt like the worst hangover of his life, _at the time_ (at least that's what he'd say to Shin-chan _every time_ and every time the good doctor fought the urge to just let Takao's head fall in the toilet water and be done with it). But this seemed like a particular virulent episode.

The absolute last thing he wanted to do at the moment was get up, but the mercurial contents of his treacherous stomach had other ideas. They were slushing around violently like acidic waves of bile in a choppy sea, lapping at his insides, threatening to knock him over.

He swore he was never drinking again. _And meant it this time_ , he thought as he placed his good foot on the ground first, then patiently waited for the inevitable spinning to subside before placing the injured one down.

Then he noticed that someone (a merciful angel) had left a trash can for him bedside the bed.

The next time Takao opened his bleary eyes, it was to see said Angel of Mercy glaring down at him with an unamused, unhappy scowl on his face.

"Shin-chan, what happened to your neck?" Takao managed to croak. The scowl only deepened as Shintarō's death glare came in and out of focus.

Takao was on his back, this time he was laying on the tatami. He was still naked, though Shin-chan had thoughtfully thrown the afghan (the one Takao had dragged in last night) over him to cover the important bits.

Takao also noted that the trash can was gone and that the room smelled vaguely of lemon scented disinfectant. That alone was enough to get his stomach quivering vigorously again, like someone had plunked spare change into a vibrating bed at a cheap love hotel.

_Oh fuck, make it stop._

Shin-chan produced the now glistening clean trash can out of what to Takao seemed like thin air and clearly fearing for its safety, quickly divested Takao of his afghan with the same lightning-fast flick of the wrist one would employ in a parlor trick to remove a table cloth without upsetting any of the place settings on top of it.

In that moment a starry-eyed Takao would've sworn he had married a magician or at the very least, a man with preternaturally sharp reflexes. Whether it was Takao's own alcohol sopped delirium, or whether Shintarō had really acquired the hitherto unknown skills of an illusionist was anyone's guess.

"You didn't take the acetaminophen," Shin-chan barked accusingly in what sounded like too loud a voice.

Takao slowly looked up from the trash-can-of-misery he was gripping so tightly his knuckles had gone white. With the amount of time it took him to complete this one simple task, you'd have thought he was pulling a drawbridge up from over a moat. His puffy lids ascended at a snail's pace as he undertook the painful exertion of lifting his gaze just high enough to notice that there was indeed a glass of water (on a coaster, of course) and presumably two pain killers on the nightstand in front of him in what seemed like an insurmountable distance away, but was really within arm's length. _Somehow_ he'd missed seeing that anodyne of hope in his eagerness to empty the vile contents of his stomach in the most painful and violent way possible.

The next time Takao regained consciousness it was to the uproarious sound of "Papa!" as two bundles of joy were promptly deposited atop his bed.

_Oh what fresh hell is this?_

Takao pulled the covers up to his neck because he had no idea what state of undress he was in this time and turned pleading, hopeful eyes at Shintarō.

As if responding to his husband's silent inquiry of _why Shin-chan? why would you do this to me? why would you bring these loud and bouncy creatures in here_ , Shintarō said, "You should see the state your sister is in."

Then Shin-chan produced a plate of warm, plain sticky rice (reheated in the microwave and left over from last night's dinner) out of seemingly nowhere and really, he needed to stop with the magic tricks this instant because Takao was in no condition to properly gush and he'd be over-the-moon impressed with them right now if he were sober.

"Papa sick," Keiko said in still too loud a voice pointing to her hapless father lying on the bed like it was his last day on earth as her brother climbed on top of said hapless father's stomach apparently intent on testing the elasticity of his vital organs.

"It's more a self-inflicted injury," Midorima informed her.

###

Takao and Kazumi were effectively out of commission for the rest of the day. Shintarō spent more time than he cared to dwell on running in between rooms tending to the needs of his newly assigned patients and continuously emptying the bile out of a small trash can and a pink plastic beach pail (Aunt Kazumi promised she'd buy a teary-eyed Keiko-chan a new one just as soon as she was physically capable of getting out of bed).

It reminded him, none too fondly, of the days when he was just a lowly resident and had to do the unpleasant tasks none of the higher ups on the hospital totem pole wanted to do. Shintarō hated those days.

The children followed Shintarō around all day like a pair of bewildered ducklings. It was only natural that they should cling to the only adult who was not incapacitated at the moment, the only adult who _in theory_ was capable of taking care of them. Still, they seemed a bit befuddled as to why that adult happened to be Daddy today.

Midorima Shintarō was _not_ an absentee father. He was devoted to his children. The minute he came home from work and crossed the posh threshold of their plummy home, he was theirs. He was there scooping both of them up and blowing raspberries on Kichiro's pudgy belly and kissing Keiko-chan chubby cheeks. He played the piano for them (or with them) in the spacious living room. Keiko-chan absolutely insisted on sitting on Daddy's lap while he played for her so she could embellish his songs by adding the appropriate random notes wherever she felt they were necessary. For reasons unknown, his children positively adored the chaotic, discordant noise they created when banging the keys of the baby grand (early and often).

On a nightly basis, he fed his children, changed them, gave them baths, played with them, and tucked them into their beds. He read them stories. Most of them came from a Japanese translation of German fairytales his mother brought back with her on one of her many trips abroad (Grandma Midorima was intent on testing airline baggage limits; she also spent money like a drunken sailor on shore leave). The German ones seemed to be particularly ghastly and thus, held their attention longer.

He knew all their favorites by heart. The pages were well-worn and the spine of the book was literally holding on by a thread, but Shintarō knew all the inflections and funny little voices that invariably made his natural baritone crack and made his naturally boisterous children dissolve into delighted squeals as silly Daddy tried to assume the voice of a harried princess complaining about a legume in her bedding (lately he felt a strong kinship with said princess, good sheets really were hard to come by).

Midorima Shintarō was _not_ an absentee father. But he didn't do it alone either. It was rare that he had the children like this, all to himself, an entire day without Takao to gently guide him, to reassure him that he was not screwing this up. In the span of almost a year, he could count on two fingers the number of times he'd had to forego his husband's metaphorical handholding. A pair of consecutive days of forced convalescence after Takao threw out his back trying to shift a formidable mahogany crib -- a family heirloom that had held Shintarō and Shuzuko and countless other Midorima children -- out of a patch of direct sunlight filtering in through the nursery’s floor-to-ceiling windows. _Idiot_. Even then, Takao had been easily accessible, a comforting stone's throw away, lying flat on his back in the master bedroom on the opposite end of the penthouse ready to dole out advice on how to burp Kichiro and how to make Keiko-chan's hiccups go away. And by the second day, under the guise of checking up on her son, Shintarō's mother-in-law had dropped by and had proceeded to entrench herself in their home and in taking care of her new grandchildren for the rest of that weekend.

In between the constant interruptions, the three sober inhabitants of the little bungalow spent a quiet day indoors. Shintarō's children had stared longing at the beach scene unfurling outside, just beyond the back porch, and had done so for so long that they had left tiny nose prints and two pairs of sticky handprints on the sliding glass door. But despite pleading, puppy dog eyes, Midorima didn't dare go out into the water without another adult on hand, so they spent most of the morning building a fort made of cushions (the way Papa did at home), knocking it down, and building it back up again.

After he gave Keiko-chan and Kichiro a bath (a task that took twice as long without another set of helping hands and thanks to Kichi-chan relieving himself in the bathwater, he had to start the process all over again), Midorima Shintarō decided to tackle the daunting task of making lunch.

After his first victim (Takao) retched up his very first spoonful of what was supposed to be namerou, Shintarō decided to scrap the rest of the pot into the step trash can in the kitchen. He wasn't sure if it was the wicked hangover or his horrible culinary skills that were to blame, but Midorima didn't want to chance it by feeding it to anyone else. He'd cleaned up enough vomit for one day, _thank you very much_.

And so Midorima Shintarō solved a hunger problem the way his mother had taught him, by ordering in. He called up the grocery store and though at first the manager insisted they didn't have a delivery service, he found (not for the first time) that if you throw enough money at the problem, you'll arrive at a solution fairly quickly.

Midorima was answering the front door of the bungalow twenty minutes later and paying an obscene amount of yen for a piping hot vat of clear noodles in chicken broth and a whole lot of electrolyte-replenishing sports drinks. The store had sent the milkmaid from the other day. Though she was now in street clothes, no longer done up like a Bavarian strudel, he recognized her instantly.  

The pair of them stared disappointedly at each other, sighing in unison when their paths crossed at the door -- the milkmaid because she was no doubt hoping to see Takao again and Shintarō because he was hoping _not_ to run in to trollops who flirted shamelessly with his husband. Shintarō may or may not have stuck his neck out at her, so to speak. Preening his marking like a salacious merit badge.

After a brief, but terse exchange of money for goods, Shintarō quickly took his watery spoils into the kitchen throwing the sports drinks into the mostly empty fridge and divvy up the soup into bowls. He left one of the bowls on the bedside table next to a whimpering heap of blankets that could only be Kazumi. He did the same for Takao who was out like a light and who had again kicked his blanket off in his sleep (though mercifully he'd kept his clothes on this time), but not before pulling his fringe back and depositing a tender kiss on his sweaty forehead. He might be an idiot, but he was _his_ idiot.

Shintarō returned to the main living area and after briefly trying to wrestle Kichi-chan into his rented highchair quickly decided it was easier for everyone involved if he eschewed table manners this one time and they all ate on the floor in front of the television. His picky eater took mercy upon her overworked father and didn't make _too_ much of a fuss as she picked chunks of carrot out of her broth before slurping down her noodly meal. Afterwards, they spent a quiet afternoon in the living room, on top of the coverlet and the single pillow Shintarō had managed to snag from his bedroom.

Kichiro napped on his father's chest, cat toy safely tucked between them while Keiko-chan absentmindedly twirled her fingers into thick, green hair (a telltale sign of fatigue) while her doting father used the tablet he'd been writing his research paper on to play cartoons on command for his little princess until she too fell asleep.

In the end, Shintarō thought it wasn't so bad being the only parent in charge for the day. His kids were clean (for now), well-fed, and sleeping soundly in their make-shift fort-bed in the living room where the three of them would be camping out tonight. Slowly, but surely he was gaining confidence in his role as father.

###

Midorima Shintarō slept the sleep of the just, deep and profound and unperturbed. Today, he'd been an absolute saint and consequently, he hadn't slept this soundly in years. It was exhausting taking care of an entire household of whiny people who needed to be fed, some who needed to be changed and all of whom needed to be cleaned up after and tended to constantly. He didn't know how Takao did it so effortlessly and without complaint day in and day out, but  _someone_ was going to get a huge Father's Day bouquet come next June.

When the children were much smaller, terrifyingly small, Shintarō wouldn't have dreamed of falling asleep beside them for fear of rolling over and accidentally squashing one of them. Back then, the label of "Daddy" had been newly minted and newly foisted upon him and he'd had his doubts as to whether he and Takao were capable of such a monumental undertaking. But the good part was, the really fortunate part was that once the children were theirs, he and Takao no longer had a choice in the matter. They were theirs and there to stay.

Now, almost a year later, Shintarō had grown into his role of father. And the children? Well, they were really thriving. They were much sturdier too, and while Shintarō still worried about them constantly (he always would, no matter how big they got), he no longer hesitated, no longer thought twice about falling asleep beside them.

 _Yes_ , Midorima Shintarō slept soundly. That was until he was awoken by a well-placed foot jab to his abdominal cavity. He really should've taken the time to commend his son for finding his father's spleen with such pinpoint accuracy (eyes closed and in his sleep no less), a feat that still eluded some of Shintarō's resident underlings, except Midorima was too busy doubling over in pain and trying to keep the tears at bay.

A few hours later he was roused again, this time from a dream in which he'd been swimming in a hot spring, by a very real, very warm water fall dribbling down his pajama clad thigh. And maybe, just maybe Takao had been right about it being too early to start potty training their daughter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Shintarō tries to hide his love away only to make a very public spectacle of himself in the front yard.

The following afternoon, the Takao siblings had recovered from a pair of wicked hangovers, the pain in Kazunari's foot had receded enough that he could walk without wincing _too_ much, and everyone had left the bungalow to get lunch from the fried squid stand near the fishing pier. Everyone, except Shintarō.

Shintarō had stayed behind ostensibly so he could respond to a few work emails. But in reality it was so he could stare at himself in the bathroom mirror for an absurd amount of time, adjusting and re-adjusting the popped collar of his polo shirt. He was trying to solve the conundrum of how the hell he was going to disguise what was so obviously a very prominent love bite he just so happened to be sporting on the side of his neck. A mortifying memento left behind by _someone's_  enthusiastic and alcohol-fueled romantic overtures the night before last.

He'd hoped against hope (and his medical training) that the love splotch would've faded by now, but instead it managed to look even worse than it had yesterday.

It had proven itself unexpectedly useful in front of the flirtatious milkmaid turned delivery girl. In front of her, he'd worn it proudly like a badge of honor ( _See this? He gave this to me. In bed. He marked me. Because I'm his. And you can't have him_ , was what Midorima had tried to convey with a haughty glare and an outstretched neck). But now he was going to have to venture out into polite society and this unseemly, ruddy ring of unrestrained passion just wouldn't do. 

Despite the time and effort he'd already plunked down into disguising it, the results so far were woefully underwhelming. It was laughable how little of the offending surface area the ruff of fabric covered.

It was so very blatantly a set of adult choppers complete with a single, distinctively crooked lateral incisor (easily visible and often on display thanks to its owner's near constant laughter) so as not to leave even a casual observer with any doubt as to who the author of this amorous souvenir had been. Shintarō doubted their own _dentist_ had a better impression of Takao's pearly whites than the one he was exhibiting right now in the tawdry medium of bruised skin and broken capillaries.

He'd already thought of using a band-aid to cover the offending mark, on the off chance someone would believe he'd somehow gotten a cut on his neck. But the idea was quickly thwarted when he'd raided the first-aid kit and realized all the band-aids they owned were not only miniscule in size but were also pink and had the ubiquitous face of that red-bowed, mouthless white cat on them, the one whose visage was stamped on _oh_ , approximately 90 percent of his daughter's earthly possessions and consequently was strewn all over their penthouse like feline confetti. It had started innocently enough with a pellet-filled plush toy Takao had bought her during a family outing and before they knew it, the prominent puss had proliferated like mold in a petri dish. In any case, the idea was to draw _less_ attention to himself, not more.

Even if he'd been clairvoyant and packed accordingly for just such an occasion (being munched on by one's husband), he couldn't very well go wearing a scarf on the beach. He briefly considered digging up the oxford he'd worn on the drive down. It was his custom to wear it buttoned all the way up anyway and it would've covered up the situation nicely, but by now the shirt had been festering under a pile of dirty laundry that was growing taller by the day and Shintarō had to draw the line somewhere.

Recognizing a lost cause when he saw one, Midorima went back to his bedroom to respond to the few, still remaining emails from a colleague who had been covering his shifts at the hospital. Even though he was on vacation, he couldn't completely go off the grid. He couldn't disconnect entirely from work because he was a doctor and no one knew his patients better than he did.

Shintarō went about his day, ignoring his growling stomach. He figured Takao would feed him when he got back. It was nice having someone who took care of him, even if that person wasn't taking care of him right this minute.

Sometime later, after he'd resorted to biding his time by editing his paper and perhaps being egged on by his growing hunger pangs, he was visited with the brilliant idea that he could use makeup to cover-up what was tantamount to a scarlet letter. He put down his tablet and headed back into the small bathroom to raid the makeup bag he'd spotted tucked in the little gap between the wall and the back of the faucet. He and Kazumi weren't the same skin tone (especially not now when he was brandishing a sunburn that rivaled a rash in its intensity and discomfort), but maybe it would make the love smudge less noticeable. In any event, it was worth a try.

He opened the pocket door of the lone, jack-and-jill bathroom that connected the two bedrooms to rummage through the little bag when he unexpectedly came face-to-face with the owner of said bag who was unfortunately attired in nothing but her birthday suit. Kazumi had been in the process of putting on her bikini bottom, the matching top was still resting beside her on the towel rack.

To his horror, Shintarō froze. His big feet stayed firmly in place. He wasn't leering. His manful loins had never once so much as stirred in that direction, but he was momentarily struck dumb by, of all things, the sight of a naked woman -- a very bare, naked woman. Midorima Shintarō had not set out to get an eyeful, though eyeful was exactly what he got. It seemed Kazumi had gone full frontal, espousing the depilating habits of a certain South American country.

One blood curdling scream later, Shintarō was patiently waiting outside the now firmly closed (slammed shut) pocket door while his sister-in-law finished getting dressed. She was yelling an uninterrupted string of obscenities at him through the thin plywood door centered primarily around increasingly creative, shockingly vulgar suggestions of what Shintarō could go do to himself right now.

"You know," he said calmly when she finally paused for breath. "That thing that you just suggested. As a doctor, I can assure you that that's physically impossible."

And this was precisely why Midorima Shintarō was no good at pillow talk or dirty talk or role playing for that matter (a debauched and thoroughly amused Takao laughing his head off and begging him to _just go along with it Shin-chan_ , came to mind). Of course that's not what this was. Kazumi was just telling him a thing or two about where he could stick it.

His one regret (aside from walking in on his sister-in-law at all) was that when he had finally gathered his wits about him, he'd forgotten to grab the makeup bag in his haste to exit the washroom as quickly as humanly possible. Though he supposed he had more pressing problems now.

"Most people would lock the bathroom door," he observed.

" _Most_ people would knock," she hissed in between curses.

"I thought you'd left," he snapped back.

" _Obviously_ , I came back to put on my bathing suit. I thought you were supposed to be smart, you rude, insufferable, arrogant prick."

Midorima shrugged. Having pissed off countless people for innumerable reasons his entire life, he was used to criticism. He'd been called far worse and not just by Kazumi. He couldn't dispute the accuracy of her accusations -- she really did know him well.

He was trying to formulate a witty retort when the door between them opened abruptly.

Now dressed in a bikini top and a pair of homemade cutoff denim shorts, she walked past him in a huff with her head held high trying to cobble together some semblance of dignity under the circumstances.

"Pervert." She yelled back at him when she had reached the front door.

" _Puh-lease_ ," Midorima muttered disinterestedly. The accusation was _beyond_ ridiculous. "You don't even have the right parts," he pointed out, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the wall. "I believe you're missing some _key_ equipment."

Her silvery blue eyes went wide like affronted saucers and he realized a moment too late his mistake. There had been a line in the sand and he'd been tiptoeing towards it all week. Now, he'd not only crossed it, he'd run roughshod over it.

That was the absolute last thing he should have said to a woman who had so very recently caught her boyfriend in bed with her next door neighbor, her _male_ next door neighbor.

He registered the hurt look on her face, those watery eyes for a split second before she bolted out the front door. And then he really panicked. _Shit_. He was in trouble. He was in big, big trouble. He had to stop her, before, before -- _oh fuck_ , he had to stop her.

###

Shintarō took off like a light, like a former basketball phenom still in surprisingly superb conditioning. Because if he didn't catch up to her there was a most excellent chance his shadow was going to murder him.

Having forgotten all about the love bite he'd been trying to hide from the outside world, he chased after her. It wasn't much of a pursuit. His long legs caught up to her easily enough. She didn't even make it past the front yard before he used his considerable wingspan to wrap his arms around her waist and bring her down like a lion clawing onto the rump of a fleeing gazelle.

Kazumi didn't stand a chance. She came crashing down on her stomach with Midorima landing heavily on top of her, their bodies lining up most immodestly.

Tackling Kazumi felt unexpectedly a lot like tackling Takao in that they both had sharp, bony edges or maybe it was that Kazumi had purposely thrown her elbows out, jabbing Midorima in the gut and knocking the wind out of him in the process.

Even so, he had enough presence of mind to tighten his grip and not let go of his squirming catch. If he did, she would surely run off and tell on him to her brother before Midorima had a chance to mollify, or bribe, or grovel, or beg for leniency.

Takao Kazunari was a carefree, easy going guy. He let a lot of things slide. He was of the live and let live persuasion. And he put up with quite the eccentric little hothouse orchid without so much as a grumble. Some might say he had the patience of a saint, had sprouted wings and a halo in the process of courting one very large malcontent. He'd have to be downright seraphic to be married to a certain tsundere _._

Takao Kazunari was a carefree, easy going guy. But he was also a big brother. And though Midorima towered over his husband by a significant number of centimeters, a legitimately pissed off Kazunari scared the dickens out of him. One simply did not --  _did not_ \-- make his baby sister cry and walk away unscathed.

They were still a tangled heap of limbs in the front yard when said baby sister resumed her very adult verbal assault on the man who for all the world looked like he was spooning her, when in reality he was just trying to keep his grip on her as she struggled to get out from under him.

"You are the _most_ callous, _most_ insensitive, _most_ heartless man on this planet!" She loudly informed him from under his chin.

Kazumi's loud declarations and their most unusual pose in the very public front yard of the bungalow garnered the unwanted attentions of an elderly couple who just happened to be strolling by on the abutting sidewalk. In a society where speaking too loudly on the metro was frowned upon, Shintarō and Kazumi was quite the rare spectacle to behold.

The bickering pair looked up from their comingled stack of interlocking limbs in unison and simultaneous took notice of their startled spectators. Comically, the rowdy relations went stock still, as if they'd had the same thought. As if not moving a muscle would make their aged audience forget they were there.

The old man, clearly the husband, acknowledged Shintarō by nodding his head in solidarity, as if to say, _Cheer up son. All is not lost. Just apologize, buy her some flowers, and she'll forget all about it in the morning_.

The wife gave Kazumi a knowing look which Midorima suspected was meant to convey encouragement along the lines of, _Hang in there, dear. It happens to all of us._

Then the old woman turned her scrutinizing gaze to him and Shintarō could see the realization spread across her time-weathered face. Her curious eyes had naturally fallen upon the hail-sized hickey on his neck.

Because of course she would notice it, _everyone_ was going to notice it. It was like he was wearing a red bull’s-eye or a bright neon t-shirt (one of the many that plagued Takao's side of the closet) announcing that he'd gotten mauled by his lover the night before last.

After a moment of contemplation in which time and space seemed to come to a mortifying, screeching halt, she winked saucily at Kazumi. 

An exasperated Midorima had had enough. "It's not what it looks like," he yelled out indignantly at the meddling couple who had misread the situation entirely. The couple said nothing as they passed the bungalow, feigning lost interest in what they surely perceived was a lovers' quarrel.

 "She's not my wife, she's my sister-in-law." The old married couple picked up their pace.

" _Shut up._ Just shut up, you moron. You're making it worse," said the young woman who found herself in the unlikely and unprecedented position of being pinned beneath Midorima Shintarō at the moment (a first for the tsundere). The only ladies he'd ever pinned were lady bugs.

Shintarō sat up -- freeing Kazumi in the process -- and tried to regain his breath.

Kazumi picked up berating him where she'd left off and Shintarō put his placating hands up.

"You're right. I can be a bit . . . " He quickly picked through her words. "Insensitive at times," he admitted, ignoring all the other unfavorable adjectives she'd thrown at him.

Kazumi snorted at the obvious understatement and ran a shaky hand over one cheek to brush away a stray tear.

"I have had the worst week," she told him. And then the floodgates opened. Faster than he'd imagined, she was now crying in earnest and Shintarō thought better than to point out that the week wasn't over yet.

"You have no idea what it's like to feel betrayed by someone you love," she continued.

"Well, I have _some_ idea."

Kazumi stopped mid sob and looked up at him. Even in their sitting positions, he towered well above her. "Kazu would _never_." She said in a defensive hush. Her shaky voice still managed to sound furiously protective of her big brother.

Midorima rolled his eyes. "Of course I don't mean him," he spat out quickly, as if she'd intimated the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"Then, who?" She asked knowing her brother had been Midorima's first and only boyfriend.

Midorima sighed. He thought she knew. He honestly thought Takao would've told her by now. He realized only then that Takao hadn't told her because it wasn't his story to tell.

"My father . . . My father has had romantic liaisons with other women," he muddled through that last bit as quickly as possible.

He had deliberately used the past tense because he wasn't sure if his father still engaged in extramarital affairs after his heart attack or if he'd had a change of heart, so to speak. Truthfully, he didn't care to know, the less he knew about his parent's sex life the better.

Kazumi gasped, cupping her hand over her mouth in surprise. He could tell she hadn't expected that salacious tidbit of family gossip.

He could see the wheels turning in her head. She was trying to think back to the handful of times she had seen Shintarō's parents together. His father always behaved like a rich, pompous, arrogant ass and his mother was a hollowed out shell of a woman, draped in finery who turned her delicate nose up at anyone and everyone who was not a Midorima.

There weren't too many occasions where the Midorima clan and the Takao clan congregated. There had been the engagement and the events leading up to the wedding of course, and now there were a few joint gatherings revolving around the shared grandchildren. But the fact that Midorima's parents did not initially approve of Takao as a suitable, romantic partner for their son had soured the relationship between the two families, lowered the tightly knit Takao clan's opinion of Dr. and Mrs. Midorima to the subterranean level, and their interactions since then had been terse and guarded.

Eventually Shintarō's parents had come around to accepting Kazunari, the way one accepts an inevitability, with reluctance and apprehension. In Kazumi's own esteemed opinion, Midorima's parents were idiots because her brother was handsome and funny and an all-around great catch.

"But they seem so --," she started to say and then realized she couldn't really finish that sentence.

"Normal? Happy?" Midorima tried to finish it for her and they both laughed at the absurdity of that statement.

"Come on," he said as he stood up, dusted the grass off his twill shorts and offered her his hand. "We should get going before Takao finishes all the squid."

She took his hand and in that moment they both realized they had reached a truce.

"Have you told your parents yet?" He asked her as they made their way towards the pier. Despite Midorima's words about missing out on squid, they fell into a casual pace, took their time getting there.

"No. I didn't want to ruin their vacation. They worry too much about me as is."

"You should call them," he said. And after a moment of hesitation added, "You and Kazu are very lucky. You have amazing parents. You've always had their support. And you need it right now more than you think."

###

Midorima and Kazumi caught up to Kazunari and the children near the busy pier. Takao had commandeered a picnic table and at its center was a large, oil-stained paper bucket of fried squid. He was also grinning like the proverbial cat who'd eaten the canary.

Keiko-chan -- who had always been a self-starter, brimming with initiative -- had already moved seats so she could twirl Aunt Kazumi's long hair in her grease-slickened little fingers as soon as she sat down next to her.

"Shin-chan," Takao began with all the feigned innocence of someone who was holding back a secret. "Our son learned a new word today."

"Naturally," Shintarō responded in a voice dripping with fatherly pride as he took Kichiro from Takao and sat down with the tot on his lap. His children meant the world to Shintarō and he was still amazed that he'd been entrusted with the privilege of watching them grow up. 

Kichi-chan had taken his dear sweet time learning to speak (unlike his sister who must've been a natural born chatterbox; Takao imagines she must've cooed constantly before she'd said her first word). But now that Kichiro had started testing out vowel sounds aloud (Takao had a theory that maybe he said stuff when no one was looking; of course, he'd had that same theory about the family dog growing up), he was saying new words almost every day.

Kazunari turned towards their son and leaned forward to stroked his dark, downy hair. “Kichi-chan, tell Daddy what you said to the squid vendor."

Kichiro looked up at Shintarō, before eyeing Takao dubiously, as if to ask if Kazunari was sure he should be repeating it.

“Go ahead. Tell Daddy. He’ll like it as much as Papa did," he coaxed.

Kichi-chan smiled beautifully, looked up at Shintarō again with a mischievous glint in his eyes and said, “Baka.”

The pronunciation wasn't perfect, but it was obvious what he had said.

"Three guesses as to who he learned that from, Shin-chan?" Takao asked teasingly.

The tsundere cleared his throat and lied, "No idea."

Midorima had the decency to at least look somewhat abashed, though it wasn't a very convincing rendition of "abashed" as he tried to hide his amused smile by pressing his nose into wisps of soft, downy hair.  


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of the week flew by blissfully uneventful. There were no more hidden jellyfish or vengeful sunburns or calamitous family feuds.

It was their last day on the tiny islet. Tomorrow they would pack up the car and drive onto the ferry to take them back to the main island.

Midorima was sitting on the back porch, frozen drink in hand. It was a fruity concoction that Takao, having already forgotten his solemn vow never to drink again (his brief stint as a teetotaler having lasted all of one day), had blended together trying to use up what was left of the fresh fruit they'd bought at the market earlier in the week and the vestiges of alcohol that remained after what would henceforth be known as the Ill-Advised Night of Bacchanalia, when he and his sister had themselves a sibling slumber party of two in the living room and woken up to a world of hurt the next day. These were intoxicants that had miraculously survived such a night only because the Takao siblings had been too drunk to find them. It had been a roaring good time for which they both paid a painful penance the following morning. It was all fun and games until the IV drip had to be brought out.

Shintarō was trying to soak up as much of this view -- of the sand and the surf and the sun and the sky -- as he could. As if staring at it long enough would allow him take it back with him. Back to the bustling metropolis he called home.

It wasn't as if he wouldn't be able to see the ocean once they got back. Tokyo Bay with its teeming harbor, magnificent cruise ships and multi-million yen yachts was clearly and prominently visible from most of the rooms of his not so humble abode (and as if that wasn't enough, he had a gorgeous view of the city skyline on the opposite side of the penthouse which was prodigious enough to occupy the entire top floor of their building). The ocean was such a constant, prominent feature in the tableau that was presented to them by their floor-to-ceiling windows that most of the time Midorima failed to even notice it.

But here, where he could smell the seaweed drying on the shore, feel the sun's crisp heat on his sunburnt skin, hear the seagulls squawking overhead and taste the salt in the breezy air, the ocean seemed more potent, more real. Alive and moving and wild and not at all like the pretty picture he saw when he opened the bedroom drapes on his days off, on mornings when he wasn't already at the hospital making rounds.

Despite the peaceful scene in front of him, Midorima’s thoughts weighed heavily on him as he sat at the veranda taking a sip from a drink that was an amalgamation of produce he couldn’t even begin to identify. There were ideas, ruminations, feelings that Midorima had difficulty voicing even to the man he'd been in a romantic relationship with for nearly two decades.

Sure they’d said the really important things to each other; they’d crossed that nerve-wrecking, knee-buckling milestone years ago. Takao said “I love you” to him with the same frequency and ritualistic casualness people used to remove their shoes before entering a home or a temple - as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, as if you were supposed to do it. Midorima was much more reserved with his sentiments. Even so, he had on occasion spoken them.

But as a matter of course, he'd never felt comfortable articulating his emotions. That wasn't who he was. It wasn't how he was raised, to the extent his mother and father did any active or conscious childrearing at all. He and his sister had been “provided for,” usually at the hands of other people, a multitude of rotating household staff that came and went with the seasons and the jealous whims of his mother. He and his sister had been “well-cared for” in the sense that they had never wanted for anything material in their lives. During all those years he had spent chasing false idols – wandering around, lost in the wilderness – Oha Asa never once stumped him by coming up with a lucky item he couldn’t afford to buy.

His parents' presence in his life had ebbed and flowed like the tide, though not as constant and certainly not as dependable. And despite their inattentiveness, he had learned from them. He had learned an enormous amount from them. He had learned how _not_ to be an adult, how _not_ to parent from watching them. That was as charitable a spin as he could put on that and still be honest with himself. And that was about as much contemplation as he was going to devote to that disheartening subject matter right now. His drink wasn’t stiff enough to deal with that can of worms.

He didn't like thinking about such matters and he didn't have to if he didn't want to. Not right now when it seemed so far removed from where he presently was. Midorima could be petulant, even in his own head.

One of the thoughts he would one day get around to actually expressing was gratitude for the life he'd never have lived -- for the love he'd never have experienced -- if it hadn't been for one Takao Kazunari and his dogged determination to get through all those hardened, bristly layers of self-preservation which Shintarō cultivated like a thick, protective hedge and wore like a suit of armor.

Not that he had given much or _any_ thought to it at the tender age of sixteen, but if Takao hadn't taken an interest in him, he very well could've ended up living someone else's life. He would've still gone to medical school. There was no doubt in that. It was to be expected of the son of such a prominent doctor and truthfully, no matter how complicated his relationship with his father was, there would always be a small part of him that wanted to follow in his venerated footsteps, to emulate him, to make him proud.

He would've married of course. That was also to be expected. He would've resisted at first, tried to delay fate as long as possible. He would've used the demands of his schooling initially and later his medical career as an excuse. For as long as he possibly could, he would've tried to remain a bachelor before succumbing to familial pressure. He might've even made it out of his twenties without a spouse. But it would've been a temporary reprieve.

She would've come eventually. It would've been a "she." Of course it would have been. She would've been beautiful. There's no doubt about that either. She would've been hand selected by his father because Midorima would've wanted nothing to do with the process. And his father had always valued aesthetics, had always had an appreciation and an eye for the female form.

The elder Midorima would've chosen someone exquisite for his son. Someone with impeccable manners, exceptional breeding and unimpeachable social pedigree. Someone like Midorima's mother. She would've been excessively polite, quiet, submissive, everything a traditional housewife was supposed to be. Everything Takao was not. And Midorima would've hated her. He hated her now, this unrealized, figment of his imagination. She was loathsome to him and she wasn't even real. She was a mere hypothetical musing.

It was no mystery that it would've been an arranged marriage. It had to have been. Shintarō's social skills have always been appalling and without Takao there to soften his rough edges, he would've been just as acerbic and abrasive as he was in middle school when he could only count Akashi as a friend. He couldn't have possibly courted anyone on his own, let alone a woman desirable enough to meet his parents' high standards.

Despite her considerable physical attributes, he would've been no more sexually attracted to her than he was to any other woman, but he would've fulfilled his duties. There would've been no reason not to. It would've been expected of him.

He would've thought of someone else every single time he was with her. Shintarō had never been one of those people who’d struggled with their orientation. He’d known, he’d always known who he was attracted to. It probably wouldn't have been anyone specific (anyone he knew), his decoy lover. As it was, he'd only ever fantasized about Takao. He wasn't sure who he would fantasize about if he hadn't fallen in love with the hawkeye. Probably some random, handsome stranger he'd passed on the train that morning. Or maybe someone as cliché and as stereotypical as a police officer or firefighter he'd pass on his commute home. Who knew. He'd like to think he would've abstained from any extramarital activities. The mess his father made of Shintarō's home life would've still been an effective deterrent.

They would've had children, he and this faceless, but undoubtedly beautiful woman, assuming everything was in working order. Shintarō didn’t know. He’d never had a reason to find out and he’d certainly never set out to impregnate anyone. Their children would've taken after him. His father would’ve certainly consulted with a geneticist in selecting this paradigm of a wife, this prized vessel.

Their offspring would’ve had green hair like everyone on his father's side. They would've had poor vision and been musical prodigies. Of course they would've been. It was anyone's guess what instrument they would've picked up. But he wouldn't have had to wait long to find out. He took to the piano and his sister the violin, both at a very young age.

He would've hated his life. That he was certain of. He would've been like his mother, trapped in an unhappy marriage. Except he would've been worse off, because at least in his mother's case there had been love, or lust, or infatuation, or whatever the hell it was that had hoodwinked two ill-matched and poorly-suited people to hitch their wagons together in a clusterfuck of a marriage that was to everyone’s surprise now in its third decade.

In any case, he wouldn't have been happy. He was absolutely certain of that. He wouldn't have experienced the slight arrhythmia (a hummingbird beating its wings against his chest) he got whenever Takao laughed unexpectedly, the blush Shintarō always tried to cover up by feigning annoyance. His stomach wouldn't have done back flips the way it did now whenever Kazunari inexplicably looked at him a certain way -- like he was precious and adored and the hawkeye couldn't imagine life without him.

And he wouldn't have known what Takao’s heated skin felt like underneath his questing palms or in the space between his knees, all feverish and shivering with want. Shintarō was convinced that was just not possible to be happy without knowing such things.

He wouldn't have known the wonders of Midorima Keiko and Midorima Kichiro and that was where he stopped himself again. Because he couldn't bear to think of life without his children. His  _actual_  children. Not the phantom ones he would've had with some unknown woman, but his _real_ children who were 14 months and 28 months old, who were presently wearing matching sailor suits and sun bonnets and were loudly building a castle with their aunt a short distance in front of him in the sand just beyond their rented bungalow. Who made their normally ornery, pragmatic father think of them in terms of adjectives like adorable and delightful and precious.

He was blissfully engulfed in noise. And it wasn't the argumentative squawks of the nearby seagulls grappling over a bucket of fried fish chunks someone had dropped on the beach or the constancy of the surf breaking against the shore that filled his heart with happiness. It was the sound of children,  _his_  children, laughing and squealing and squabbling over Keiko-chan's  _new_ , _replacement_  pink beach pail.

It was a fantastical life he never would've conjured up for himself. It was a life that sometimes felt like a fairy tale. It was a life he never would've had the courage to live if it hadn't been for Takao.

He wasn't sure when it happened, but he knew it was very early on in their relationship when he had decided that this wasn't going to be a casual fling or a mere outlet for his budding sexuality. That there was permanency and emotion in their bond and that he wasn't going to let go of Takao, no matter what. Even if his mother and father found out about them. Even if they disapproved or disowned him.

Without Kazunari, there never would've been a reason for him to buck tradition and stand up to his parents. There would've never been a reason to come out. He would've been like Kazumi's boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, or whatever the hell he was now. He wouldn't have been true to himself. He would've been living a pantomime, a falsehood and there was only misery that.

It was a thought that Midorima found difficult to express aloud, in actual words. Still, that wasn't to say he hadn't improved any since he was sixteen years old and hopelessly in love with his on-the-court partner and closest friend.

And as if he were being summoned telepathically by Midorima's beckoning thoughts, Takao deposited himself onto his husband's lap. From their back porch they had front row seats to the sunset that would be upon them in less than an hour and to the fireworks that were set to go off from barges later that evening to mark the end of the weeklong holiday.

It had been exactly five days since Shintarō's ill-advised, extended sunbathing and he was now molting like a chicken. Meanwhile, Takao's sun-kissed skin had darkened into a lovely golden hue. Midorima would have been irritated by the whole unfairness of the situation, except for the fact that he was secretly admiring the view.

He placed the drink down on the veranda in favor of getting a better grip on Kazunari.

"How's your foot?" He muttered the words into the shell of Takao's ear, wrapping his arms around him to keep him in place, even though the hawkeye showed no inclination of going anywhere and in fact settled closer against Shintarō's bare chest.

"Better, thanks." They both stared out onto the backyard where Kazumi and their children were now engaged in the serious business of building a moat for their sandcastle, a strong defense mechanism was important to any fortress.

Now that he had a lap full of Kazunari, Shintarō allowed his thoughts to drift to more pleasant pastures. If he ducked his head a few centimeters, he could nuzzle those soft raven locks and overload his olfactory senses with that familiar, comforting scent that was uniquely Takao.

It was late in the day and so the hawkeye no longer smelled of their shared shampoo or of the triple milled soap Midorima had packed (one he'd been using since childhood and Takao used because it reminded him of Shin-chan and because it was convenient, within arm's reach in the shower).

He no longer smelled of the products he used this morning -- of sunscreen, hair gel, toothpaste and other modern luxuries -- but he was no less attractive to his former ace and life partner. He smelled of undistilled Takao.

It was not the strong, acrid odor that had frequently emanated off of both of them -- off of the entire team, really -- in droves as they sweated bucket loads during a game or during one of Coach Nakatani's notoriously grueling practices. It was the scent preceding that one, when they'd walk out of the locker room together and started warming up.

It was a scent Midorima first noticed on the basketball court and so in the beginning he had associated it with the squeak of sneakers on a wooden floor and the rubbery, gripy feel of a basketball between his fingers. But that was only at first. Later it became tangled up in urgent, late night romps and lazy, early morning sex. And now it was the scent of constancy, of boisterous laughter and of mussed up sheets at home.

"She's gonna be okay. She's tough and resilient just like you are," he told him, having followed Kazunari's gaze and noticed he was staring at his sister.

"I know. I just wish things were easier for her. She deserves --"

"Maybe they will be. Maybe the next one will --"

"I think it's going to be a while before -" Takao interrupted him. It was too soon, too soon to even think about the possibility of his little sister having her heart broken again. And then entirely unbidden he changed the subject.

"They're happy, you know. They're two happy, healthy, well-adjusted kids and there's absolutely nothing in this world they are lacking." He said and Midorima just stared at him like he’d grown an extra head.

Sometimes Takao did this thing where it felt like he could read Midorima's mind, divine all his insecurities. Midorima didn't need to be a brain surgeon to know that such things were impossible, that Takao possessed no other worldly ability. It was just that Kazunari knew him so well, better than anyone else on the planet. And yet despite all this, despite his intimate knowledge of all things Midorima Shintarō, for some ridiculous, miraculous, unfathomable reason, Kazunari saw something in Shintarō that made him want to stay with the difficult doctor.

Midorima leaned forward closing the distance between them in a warm, passionate kiss. "I'm happy too. You make me that way."

Kazunari rubbed his cheek against Shin-chan’s chest, settled himself more comfortably in the surgeon’s lap and looked very much like he could purr.

"I didn't have a happy childhood," he told him. It would've been a confession, except that Takao already knew that, they already knew so much about each other. "This was one of the few places I remember coming with my parents that I actually liked."

"Because you had some happy memories here," Takao supplied in mock seriousness.

"Of course not," Midorima chuckled in that rumbly way that always warmed Takao's heart. "You've met my parents, right?" he asked facetiously. "It's a beautiful place," he said looking around, "And I wanted to bring my own family, _our_ family -- you and the children -- here because of that."

Takao kissed him just then, a peck on the lips meant to convey reassurance. "We can always come back. Just the four of us," he said smiling sweetly at his Shin-chan.

"I'd like that," he said grinning back, not used to having to look up at Kazunari, but enjoying the view just the same.

Takao took Midorima's slender, long fingers into his hand. "You've. Behaved. Abominably," he informed him, punctuating each word with a kiss on a sunburnt knuckle. "And yet. I wouldn't change. A single thing. About you."

And then he cupped his face in his hands, tilted the angle of his jaw just so and kissed him deeply, the rolling warm tongue in his mouth meant to convey an invitation, a promise of much more to come.

"I love you, Shin-chan."

"I know, idiot .... I love you, too."

_The End._

* * *

**AN1:** This was supposed to be a quick, end of summer fic, but as you can see it took me until mid-December to finish it. As with the other fics in this series, the title is from a Beatles song.

 **AN2:** I'm toying with the idea of adding a forth story to this series, but I have to see if I have enough material for it. Thank you for reading this far, I hope you've enjoyed it.


End file.
